


Turnips and Venison

by Hollyberrybunny



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Apprentice d'Artagnan, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:19:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollyberrybunny/pseuds/Hollyberrybunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I had no choice. I made a promise to my father. Heaven knows I’ve let his memory down in recent years. d’Artagnan is a man of honour. He will understand and – in time – I will believe he will see it for the best.”</p>
<p>d'Artagnan is sure his commission to the Musketeers is just around the corner. Life is good until an old friend of Athos' walks into the Garrison and threatens to take it all away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posting here and the first thing I've written for many years and I'm soooo nervous about putting it up. There is lots of original and clever stuff on this site - I'm afraid this is neither original or particularly clever but I hope it serves as a warm-up to get me writing again. My proof-reading skills are even more rusty than my writing, so apologies for any silly mistakes.  
> There's no real violence but there is the odd bit of bad language.  
> The story is set mid-way through Series 1. I'd love it if you would let me know what you think. Thanks.

It was impossible for d’Artagnan to keep the spring from his step as he walked the short distance between his two homes in Paris – the Bonacieux lodgings and the Musketeer garrison. He couldn’t remember when this hectic, complicated, exciting life in the city had replaced the peace and beauty of Gascony as home, but he knew it to be true.

  
Yes, he sometimes found himself dreaming wistfully of wide open spaces and expansive grassy meadows but he knew in his soul there could be no going back. He had made the week-long trip back to Lupiac just once in the five months since his arrival in Paris. Just long enough to return his father’s body to rest next to his mother and to make sure his father’s lands - and the tenants who depended on them – were being taken care of.

  
d’Artagnan may not have been raised a noble, but Alexander had always insisted he understood his duties as a minor landowner, including keeping a watchful eye on the welfare of the families who lived on their few small plots. Thankfully, during his 19 years, Gascony had enjoyed a relatively fertile spell with the nightmare of serious crop failure not visiting the lands once. That’s not to say he and his father, like everyone else, hadn’t experienced hunger at one time or another but by pulling together with their neighbours they’d always managed somehow.

  
In recent years it had been taxes rather than harvests that had been the main worry. But that was an old chestnut.  
Despite being greeted warmly as “the young master”, d’Artagnan still found it almost impossible to think of the farm as being his now. The idea of returning to the life of a farmer was as foreign to him as the city had been just a few months ago. One day he would sell the farm, find a new owner to care for the land, and use the small bounty to settle properly in Paris.

  
But that was for the future. One step at a time, he kept reminding himself. For now it was enough to work towards his commission in the King’s Musketeers, the on-going income from the Gascony farm allowing him to pay his way, albeit frugally most of the time.  
There was seldom a day when he wasn’t thankful for what he had found in Paris – a new career as an apprentice soldier, the friendship of three incredible mentors and the warmth of Constance’s table.

  
Ah, Constance. He couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips as his thoughts strayed again to his flame-haired landlady. This morning’s buoyant mood was in no small part due to last night’s dream which had held him, enraptured, through the dark hours. In it, she had finally thrown off the duty of her unhappy marriage and had come to him, freely and without guilt, her fulsome lips turned toward him, her sparkling eyes inviting, her creamy hand reaching…

“Oi, Whelp! Where do you think you’re going?”

  
Porthos’ familiar bellow, accompanied by an equally familiar snicker from Aramis had the youngster snap suddenly from his dreams, realising he had walked straight past the garrison gates.

  
Sheepishly he turned and entered the courtyard, approaching the familiar table where two of his three best friends lounged in the morning light.

  
“Glad you’ve decided to join us,” Porthos smirked. “Apologies,” d’Artagnan ducked his head, “my thoughts were elsewhere.” The light blush that travelled from the collar of his leather doublet to the tips of his ears was not lost on Aramis who snickered again as he elbowed his fellow Musketeer in the ribs.

  
“Elsewhere, as in the arms of a certain lovely dressmaker, I’d wager eh?” The comment made d’Artagnan’s blush deepen even as he muttered a familiar “she’s married” once more under his breath.

  
Thankfully his friends had also started the day in excellent spirits and took pity on their youngest, stopping their teasing in favour of sharing their own adventures from the evening before.

  
It seems Porthos had encountered a group of travelling merchants, celebrating after completing a highly profitable trade in the city. A few drinks later he had invited them to join in a friendly card game which had seen the Musketeer separate his new friends from a sizeable portion of their profit. The visitors had taken their defeat in fair humour and the group had eventually staggered apart on good terms.

  
Likewise, fortunate had smiled on Aramis who had spent the night doing what he liked best – resting in the arms of a beautiful, rich but bored young wife. Even better, her husband had failed to return by first light, allowing the mischievous soldier to slip, fully clothed, from the back door rather than leaping in panic and half-dressed from an upstairs window as had happened more than once since d’Artagnan had known him.

  
Before he knew it, the youngster was laughing out loud with his companions and didn’t even notice Athos approach from the stairs to Treville’s office where he had been discussing the day’s events.

  
A raised eyebrow from their leader was enough to stop the trio, mid-giggle. “Gentlemen,” he greeted in his usual deadpan manner. “We have our orders. Porthos, Aramis – you are on patrol. The Captain asks you to pay special attention to the West Gate. Those reports of pickpocket activity in the area continue to increase. It seems the King has received complaints and has demanded it stop.”

  
The slight upturned corner of his mouth told the others all they needed to know of Athos’ opinion of the King’s demands. Of course they could just stop the pickpockets – along with solving all crime, poverty and hunger at the same time.

  
“d’Artagnan, you are to join Mathieu’s training session. He is working on parade skills with the newer Musketeers. I believe you will benefit from his lessons.”

  
d’Artagnan tried to school his features and not show that a portion of the morning’s sun had blinked from his day. He swallowed before venturing: “I thought you and I were to train today?”

  
Even after five months and a good few adventures, d’Artagnan still wasn’t sure where he stood in Athos’ opinion. True the former Comte had agreed to act as his sponsor which had allowed the farm boy to become a musketeer-in-training. True, he seemed to approve of the younger man’s progress as his skills increased every week. True even, he seemed not to mind as d’Artagnan accompanied him and his friends in their frequent nights in the taverns of Paris.

  
But despite all this, the trainee ached to experience genuine approval and acceptance from this man he admired most of all.

And now his promised day of one-on-one training seemed not to be.

A few days previous had seen d’Artagnan involved in a minor skirmish

with raiders on the outskirts of the city. Although he had fought bravely, his inexperience had eventually told and allowed one of the bunch to surprise him with a counter-attack from above. In the confusion, the leader had been able to slip away, leaving the would-be Musketeer nursing a slightly dented head and even more dented pride.

Once he’d checked his protégé for damage, Athos had growled dissatisfaction at his mistakes and had promised a full day’s hard training to address the flaws. d’Artagnan hadn’t been sure whether he was supposed to view this as punishment, but to him it was a rare treat he had been looking forward to for days.

“No, you are relieved from my instruction today. Our session will be rearranged.” Athos shifted slightly, suddenly seeming unusually unsure of himself. “I will be gone for most of the day. I have…personal business to attend to.”

This was enough to stop each of his friends in their tracks. Athos admitting to anything approaching ‘personal business’ was unheard of. Despite their closeness, it was only a few weeks before that Aramis and Porthos had discovered his past life as the Comte de la Fere, and they still knew nothing of his breakdown, the fire and the ghostly presence of his not-dead wife. d’Artagnan had kept his vow and breathed not a word of events from that night. Truth be told his head still reeled from it all and he didn’t think he would know where to start even if he were tempted to break the confidence he had found himself party to.

The pair looked closely at their leader, d’Artagnan noticing again that silent conversation pass between them. “No, do not concern yourselves,” Athos reassured. “I have had word that an old family friend has arrived in Paris. He has asked I meet with him. I have agreed. Look for me later after your patrol.”  
With that and a nod to his companions, the older musketeer turned on his heels and strode from the garrison.

 

************************************

 

Try as he might, d’Artagnan had failed to enjoy his training with Mathieu. It didn’t help that a few of the other trainees – all sons of the nobility whose papas had already bought their commissions – seemed determined to prove that the young Gascon farmer had no place in the King’s Musketeers.

Mathieu himself had yet to acknowledge how d’Artagnan had earned his place, especially under the tutelage of the regiment’s three highest soldiers and so he continually turned a blind-eye to the odd kick, shove or trip sent d’Artagnan’s way. For his part, the Gascon stubbornly refused to be intimidated especially since he clearly outshone the others in every task put before them.

Nevertheless when Mathieu called an end to the grueling session – a full hour after the other trainees had been dismissed – it was a relieved d’Artagnan who made his way back to their regular table, soon to be joined by Aramis and Porthos at the end of their duty.

“Hard day?” Aramis enquired, noting how the youngster stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders with a grunt. “Nothing I can’t handle,” d’Artagnan was quick to respond, forever worried one of his friends might judge him lacking. The two older Musketeers shot each other a look. Neither failed to notice how sweat-soaked and grubby the boy looked, and both guessed he had been on the receiving end of some underhand tactics from the other trainees.

“What?” d’Artagnan countered, half amused, half angry at their clear concern. “Stop it, I’m fine!” and then, glad to be able to distract the pair’s attention away from himself: “Hey look, Athos is back.”

Indeed Athos was at the moment striding through the gates of the garrison. What grabbed the others’ immediate attention was the fact he wasn’t alone; at his side strolled another man, perhaps five or six years older than d’Artagnan, fair-haired with a shorter and stockier build. Although he shot them a courteous nod, Athos didn’t stop at their table but instead continued with his companion up the stairs to Treville’s office. He rapped once on the door and entered, the fair-haired man in tow.

For the second time that day, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan looked at each other in surprised silence. They each presumed this must be their leader’s ‘old family friend’ but what he was doing here at the garrison was anyone’s guess.

After a few minutes, Athos and the stranger emerged from the upper floor office. This time, as they descended the stairs the musketeer steered his companion toward his three friends, a slightly wary expression on his face.

“Gentlemen, I would like to introduce Guy Lahogue, a dear friend of my family.” At this, Athos glanced down at his feet, his usually assured air giving way to an uncertain fidget which was not lost on the others.

“Guy, may I present my brothers-in-arms and fellow Musketeers Aramis d’Herbley, Porthos du Vallon, and this is our most promising Musketeer-to-be, Charles d’Artagnan”.  
d’Artagnan felt himself colouring up at the unexpected praise from his mentor and was so flustered he failed to notice how quickly Guy dismissed him by turning away from the introduction, or how the newcomer ever-so discretely wiped his palm on the back of his trousers after shaking hands with Porthos.

The man covered himself almost instantly however, and smiled brightly. “It is a great pleasure and honour to meet you. I hope to come to know you better in the near future.”

Athos, usually unshakable in any situation, still seemed embarrassed by this last comment. He coughed slightly. “Guy, did you not say you need to return to you lodgings for the evening? Perhaps it is better you rest from your journey and I will see you back here at first light tomorrow?” At this, the visitor smiled his acceptance and, with a half-salute, bade them good night.

After Guy had departed, d’Artagnan broke the slightly uneasy silence by standing and stretching his cramped muscles with a groan. “I’m filthy,” he declared to no-one in particular. “I need to clean up or Constance will not allow me past her threshold.”

“And that would be a tragedy worthy of any great theatre!” Aramis quickly picked up on the youngster’s clever tension breaker. “Will you join us later in the Wren after you have cleaned yourself sufficiently for the delightful Madame Bonacieux?”

“No, her husband is not at home this evening and I promised I would help her deliver some cloth within the city. I will see you tomorrow.”  
Once again blushing to the tips of his ears, the youngster took his leave before Aramis and Porthos’ sniggers could get further out of hand.

 

************************************

 

Aramis wasted no time satisfying his curiosity that evening. He and Porthos approached their usual corner of the Wren where Athos was already staring at his cup of wine as though willing it to solve every one of the world’s problems.

The arriving pair drew up chairs of their own. After glancing at each other and pouring two more cups of wine, Aramis started. “So Guy? Going to tell us about him?”

Athos continued to stare at his cup for so long that a stranger might believe he hadn’t heard the question. The other two knew better, however, recognising that Athos couldn’t explain his old friend’s presence in Paris without giving away more of his own closely-guarded background. They tried hard not to hold their breath.

For his part, Athos was already resigned to this and had rehearsed how much information he needed to disclose before his friends would be satisfied. There was no way his story would touch upon his marriage or its disastrous consequences. He was desperately uneasy that d’Artagnan had learned as much as he had but equally thankful the young lad had seemingly not judged him for his past actions, nor broken his vow of silence concerning the matter.

It wasn’t a question of trust, his forever-guilty mind justified. Of course he trusted Aramis and Porthos with his life – although that was possibly because he didn’t believe his life to be of much value. Their five-year friendship had saved him over and over again as he allowed himself to rebuild his life after HER.

But he could never fully quieten that niggling gut feeling that if they knew what he was, really knew what he had done and was capable of, they would walk away and not look back.

How could they not? Aramis with his endless faith who adhered wherever possible to the teaching of the Bible, and Porthos who had risen from the filthy slums using honour and honesty as his constant code. These were both good men – the very best. How could they continue to hold him in friendship if they knew who he really was?

With all this swirling around his head, it was not surprising that Athos had to take a steadying breath before beginning.

“As I said, he is an old family friend. The son of Edmund Lahogue, who owned the lands bordering La Fere and who was my godfather. My parents and he first met before I was born when they were engaged in a bitter argument about the exact placement of the land boundary. Things turned heated and threatened to get out of hand - one of Edmund’s men fired a pistol which startled my mother’s horse into bolting. She was unable to stop it as it fell down a river bank, dumping her into fast-flowing water.

“With everyone else frozen in shock, Edmund Lahogue instantly dived in after her and dragged her to safety. Without his actions, there is no doubt she would have perished that day.” Athos paused, his audience of two riveted on the story.

After that, he and my father became the closest of friends. To his dying day, my father constantly declared our family to be in Edmund’s debt. On his deathbed he made me promise to honour the friendship between our two families and continue his vow to never refuse a request for assistance from a Lahogue.”

“And Guy?” Aramis pushed.

“I have not seen the young man in many years. He is the younger of two sons and one daughter. We were somewhat friends as we grew although he is a good few years younger than I. He is the same age…the same age…”

For the first time since he had begun, Athos glanced up at his brothers. He shuffled his feet under the table and with a shaky hand refilled his cup, slogging back the wine as though his life depended on it. Once more he drew a breath and, seeming to have made a decision, pressed on.

“He is the same age as my brother and the two were close as children.”

He was all-too aware of the gasps coming from across the table although he couldn’t tell which one put their amazement into actual words. “You have a brother?”

“Why don’t we know this?” That was definitely Porthos, the familiar growl making it sound more like a challenge than a question.

Athos sighed and shook his head very slightly, unable now to prevent the quiver in his voice. “He is no longer alive. He…perished shortly before I joined the Musketeers. And I do not talk of him because his death is still too painful for me to contemplate. Better that I shut out certain elements of my past least I go mad from them.”

The rowdiness of the packed tavern seemed to fade into the distance as the three men sat in stunned silence for who knows how long. The need to deny the pain of the past was familiar to all of them. There was no doubting what it had cost Athos to share this much and the other two were full of deep respect and gratitude that he felt able to do so after all this time.

Eventually Porthos cleared his throat and asked: “So what now? What brings him to Paris? He said he hoped to get to know us better – that doesn’t sound like he’s planning to be gone by tomorrow?”

“He came to tell me of his father’s – my godfather’s death last month. Edmund Lahogue was possibly the only person who knew of the connection between Olivier, Comte de la Fere and Athos of the Kings Musketeers. I made a point of keeping touch, albeit with brevity, in order to honour my father’s last wishes.”

“And?” again it was the bigger Musketeer who seemed intent on pushing the story to a conclusion.

“And he brought a letter for me, written on Edmund’s deathbed, asking me to sponsor Guy into the Musketeers. It seems he felt his younger son lacked direction and would benefit from honestly earning his commission and learning the discipline of a soldier’s life. That was why I took him to see Treville today – to introduce him and ask permission to enlist him as my apprentice.”

“But you already have an apprentice!” Aramis seemed genuinely confused. “You agreed to sponsor d’Artagnan – God knows you are the only one of us with the position and coin to do that.”

Despite his obvious discomfort throughout the conversation, for the first time Athos looked angry, pushing his rough wooden chair back and banging his cup on the table. “d’Artagnan will be fine. He is a Musketeer in all but name.”

His voice dropped to a mumble as though he talked to himself. “Treville agrees it is only a matter of time before the King gives him what he is due despite his young age. I am certain the Captain will allow him to stay on unsponsored until then, he will simply have to mix with some of the others and not rely so heavily upon us for his tuition. It will probably do him good – step out from behind us and show them all how good he can be.”

A lightbulb seemed to go off above Porthos’ head and the big man drew a sharp breath. “So you’re only allowed to sponsor one recruit at a time? You had to choose between d’Artagnan and this Guy, and you chose Guy?” Try as he might, he failed to keep the accusing note from his voice.

“I had no choice.” The anger gone, Athos now looked resigned and very, very sad. “I made a promise to my father. Heaven knows I’ve let his memory down in recent years. d’Artagnan is a man of honour. He will understand and – in time – I will believe he will see it for the best.”

The rest of the evening passed in near silence. Aramis and Porthos almost too stunned to say more but each harbouring fears for how this sudden turn of events would affect both their eldest and youngest brothers. All the while Athos continued to slump and brood and drink. Only his eyes gave away that he was a man trying to convince himself that he hadn’t made yet another life-changing mistake.


	2. Chapter Two

Being the young man he was, d’Artagnan listened intently as Athos recounted a somewhat shortened version of the story he had given to Porthos and Aramis the previous evening. And, being the man he was, he saw the conclusion of the tale long before Athos worked his way to it, thus giving himself time to school his features carefully and even offer his congratulations to Athos at being reunited with an old friend.

  
No one know how it took every ounce of his determined Gascon control to greet Guy warmly when he arrived at the Garrison, and acting skills he never knew he had to join in the excited chatter as the newcomer was given a standard set of training weapons and instruction on how to use them.

  
The blond had been eager to unsheathe his sword and demonstrate a flawless series of moves that spoke of many hours under expensive tuition. Every single move felt like a direct thrust in d’Artagnan’s guts.

  
“This will make little difference to us,” Aramis had said quietly in his ear, sounding for all the world as though he was trying to convince them all with his reassuring words. “We will still train and after each day, you will still join us for a meal and a drink.”

  
“It will be good for you to get to know other Musketeers – God knows we ‘ave already tried to give you most of our bad habits!” Porthos had reached out and tried to ruffle his hair in that achingly familiar way and d’Artagnan had seemed to fool them both with a good-natured “I know. It’s fine, really.”

  
Not one of them knew how his heart seemed to break apart as he watched his three best friends – now his three former teammates – lead Guy Lahogue from the training ground and onto the streets of Paris for his first tour as an official Musketeer recruit.

 

 **********************************

 

It was Captain Treville who noticed the young man standing alone in the courtyard long minutes after the newly formed four-man team had left for patrol. He sighed, immediately recognising the problem the others had not.

  
“d’Artagnan! Join me for a moment will you?” d’Artagnan startled at the command, but turned smartly on his heel and started towards the courtyard stairs.

  
He stood to attention before his commander’s desk. Treville studied him for a moment before beginning.

  
“Athos has explained the change regarding Guy Lahogue.” It was hardly a question but d’Artagnan felt compelled to replay with a “Yes Sir”, his eyes not leaving the wall behind Treville’s shoulder.

  
“I want to repeat that your position here is secure. Although it is not normal for a Musketeer recruit from a non-noble house to be unsponsored, I believe you have proven yourself worthy.”

  
But it was his next words that almost floored the Gascon before him. “A few things will need to change. Athos will no longer fund elements of your training – equipment, stabling your horse…things like that-”

  
“WHAT?” In his astonishment, d’Artagnan lost all sense of propriety as his eye’s flashed to those of his Captain. “He hasn’t – he never – I didn’t…” he tailed off, completely lost for words.

  
“You didn’t know he was doing that?” Treville was nowhere near as surprised as his young recruit but did seem suddenly more concerned. “I suppose it’s like him not to tell you. Tell me d’Artagnan do you have personal income to cover your costs here until your commission is achieved? I will do all I can to help but as regiment commander, my direct patronage is not possible.”

  
“Do not be concerned Sir, I can pay my own way. I have income from my farm. If you would let me know how much you need I will ensure you get it,” d’Artagnan replied stiffly, his proud nature showing in his every fibre.

  
“Good, good. For the time being I want you to join Mathieu’s team. They are one man down since Marcel’s death. He is almost as experienced as Athos and you will learn much from him. I will speak with him when we are done.

“I will inform him that I expect you to compete in the recruit’s contest next month and to start preparing you for it. You are dismissed.”

  
It was all d’Artagnan could do to throw his Captain a salute before escaping the office into the mid-day sunshine. Mid-day – was that all it was? This day felt like a year already, so much had changed in a few short hours since he had risen. He felt almost as lost as the night his father had died.

  
Just yesterday all had been well. He had a future. He’d felt almost secure in his friendship and his position. He’d been excited at the prospect of entering the regiment’s annual recruits’ contest, confident of his skills.

  
And he had been determined to win. King Louis himself took an interest in the contest, keen to see how his prospective Musketeers measured up. He insisted the winner was presented at Court within days and had always gifted a purse of coin as reward. More importantly to d’Artagnan, no one who had lifted the trophy and had their name engraved on the wooden plaque which hung under the Garrison stairs had failed to gain their commission shortly afterwards.

  
He remembered a couple of months ago when Aramis had thrown his arm companionably around his young shoulders and dragged him to stand before the carved roll call of winners – just six names to mark the six years since the regiment’s inception. He had gasped in awe to see the second name on the proud list – Porthos du Vallon, followed just one year later by the single name Athos.

  
“Captain Treville and I came up with the contest just after the Musketeers were formed,” he’d said. The older had squeezed his neck and said with utmost confidence, “There is no doubt in my mind the next name on that list will be Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony!”

  
From that moment on, the contest was never far from the youngster’s mind, determined as he was to prove Aramis right and repay the faith his three mentors had demonstrated in him.

  
Now, with his world suddenly crumbling a little around him, he glanced again at the wooden plaque of winner’s names and forced himself to straighten his shoulders and raise his head. Nothing had changed. He was still a worthy recruit. He would still win that contest – even without Athos’ sponsorship – and especially without his money.

 

************************************

 

The next two weeks brought few opportunities for d’Artagnan to spend time with his three friends. Despite seeming willing to Treville, Mathieu had made it perfectly clear to the Gascon that he wasn’t wanted on his team and had done everything he could to make life difficult – including insisting on hours of extra training each day.

  
Normally by the time d’Artagnan’s day was over, Athos and his team had already retired to one of their usual haunts for dinner and relaxation. Although Aramis or Porthos always made a point of leaving word for him to follow, most days he found himself too exhausted and filthy to consider joining them.

  
In truth, these were just excuses he told himself as he trudged wearily back to the Bonacieux house each evening. He had been shocked at how easily Athos had excluded him from his life – as though he had never existed. His former mentor seemed to go out of his way to avoid and even actively ignore his ex-pupil. At first, d’Artagnan had excused the change, his natural generosity not allowing him to recognise what was before his very eyes. But as days went on he was forced to acknowledge the truth – with Guy now firmly at Athos’ side, d’Artagnan was no longer of any interest to the man he admired so much.

  
On the odd occasion when a worried Porthos or Aramis had managed to drag him bodily to their tavern, Guy Lahogue had always been there – always sitting next to Athos, freely buying the wine with his seemingly-bottomless purse of coin and laughing heartily at every comment made around him.

  
Within a short time of arriving Aramis snuck away to find some willing bosom and Porthos had found an empty seat at a gaming table, leaving him face-to-face with Guy’s laughter and Athos’ refusal to even look at him.

  
Guy’s higher-born confidence and wit made d’Artagnan feel even more like the rural farmer’s son he was and he always quietly left the tavern after only an hour or so, feeling even worse than when he had arrived.

  
What he didn’t realise was that Athos’ sudden change of attitude towards him was borne solely out of guilt – an emotion the senior Musketeer knew so well. It had taken only a few nights for him to tire of Guy’s company. Athos had spoken true when he had said he hardly knew his godfather’s younger son and he certainly had never realised that he could be loud, insensitive and indiscreet - all things Athos detested in a companion.

  
It had taken only the same amount of time for him to realise how much he missed d’Artagnan’s quiet presence at his side. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he missed the most, he just knew there was a balance now sorely lacking in his team.

  
He knew he had treated d’Artagnan badly and continued to do so by blanking him each time they met. He only half managed to convince himself that the talented youngster was now better off away from his destructive influence. Better d’Artagnan learn to hate him now than later, he reasoned.

  
It was not lost on him that Athos and Porthos hadn’t taken to Guy’s company either although they loved and respected Athos far too much to say so out loud. He could hardly refrain from comparing that to the easy way their young Gascon had slotted into the group just five months before. Now they seemed to prefer to find any other entertainment rather than hang around for more than the minimum needed to be polite to his family friend.

  
Each time Athos himself was on the verge of taking his own leave away from the annoying newcomer, Guy would seem to sense his disquiet and play his trump card – telling him how pleased Athos’ father would be to see them now and – far, far worse – how incredibly proud Thomas would be that his beloved elder brother had taken his childhood best friend under his wing in this way. _That, despite everything that had happened…_

  
And so Athos would stay, paralysed by his guilt – guilt that he had failed his father’s legacy, guilt that he was driving away his two brother Musketeers, guilt at the way he had treated d’Artagnan but most of all, and more powerfully than all the rest – the deep-ingrained guilt that he had let down Thomas by failing to protect him to spectacularly.

 

*****************************************

 

The sudden change in his work and social standing was hardly d’Artagnan’s only worry, as trouble upon trouble seemed to pile upon the young recruit’s shoulders. For the second week in a row, his income had failed to arrive from Gascony leaving him with barely enough for a few more days of expenses.

  
Of all the times for this to happen! He had fired a quick letter to Gascony to try to establish what was going wrong, but that would take weeks to reach its destination and even longer for a reply to come back.

  
As promised, Treville had given him a list of charges associated with his on-going training. At first they hadn’t seemed too bad – he was convinced the captain had deliberately missed a couple off but he had refused to admit to it. However, with his income mysteriously drying up, he was more than worried about his ability to meet the costs.

  
“Talk to them,” a worried Constance had implored. She was the only one he had dared take into his confidence and only then because he had been forced to ask for a few more days’ leave on his rent.

  
“And say what?” Once more he ran his hand through his dark hair in exasperation. “That barely weeks after losing Athos’ patronage I am unable to support myself! Great Musketeer that makes me. I will appear more of a child than ever in their eyes.”

  
At that moment, Monsieur Bonacieux bustled into the parlour, scowling the instant he saw the young soldier seated at his table. “What are you doing here? Why are you not earning an honest day’s pay somewhere? You know you owe me rent?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I was just explaining to Madame Bonacieux that I am still awaiting funds from Gascony. I am sure I will be able to settle with you within a few days.”

  
“Yes well, I’m hardly surprised,” the man sneered. “You can be assured there will be interest added to what you owe and, until you bring your account to order, there will be no more food for you at this table.”

  
“Monsieur, no!” Constance cried.

  
“Oh yes!” Bonacieux puffed out his chest and rounded on his wife. “You hear me woman, I forbid you to feed him another mouthful until he pays up. I will not work my fingers to the bone to put good meals into the mouths of lazy would-be Musketeers.

  
“I know the quantity of food in this house Madame and you will not like the consequences if I find any of it unaccounted for.”

  
d’Artagnan recognised the threat this nasty, rat-like little man was making toward his lovely wife and knew instantly he would starve a hundred times over rather than put her in danger from her husband’s temper.

  
He immediately stood to deflect the argument from getting worse – how like Constance to try to defend him in the face of aggression. “Don’t worry, Monsieur, I understand completely. I am grateful for your leniency over the rent. Other than your patience I require nothing more from you or your good wife. I bid you good evening.”

  
He knew had done the right thing but couldn’t help grimacing as he sat on the bed of his small room. He had been relying on Constance’s breakfast and dinner since paying for lunch at the Garrison was now out of the question. He could no longer do so – and with still no word from Gascony, he needed a new source of coin, and fast.

 

************************************

 

It seemed fortunate finally smiled on him in a small way the following evening. He had made his way to one of the city’s seedier inns where he knew a limited bowl of yesterday’s stew and semi-stale bread could be bought for less coin than anywhere else.

  
He was standing at the back of the building with his precious meal, trying to stay away from the stinking patrons and whores spilling out from the front when the rear door exploded open. “Get out, ya lazy bag of shit!” a large woman who d’Artagnan recognised as the inn’s landlady screamed as she man-handed out a skinny lad by the back of his hair. “I’ve got more work from the rats in ‘ere than from you. Don’t bother comin’ back, ya ‘ear?” The lad took off down the dark alley as though every hound of Satan was on his tail.

  
The landlady wheeled, sensing d’Artagnan’s eyes on her. “What?” she scowled, instantly recognising him as far prettier and better dressed than any of her other patrons, male or female.

  
d’Artagnan didn’t allow himself to think, least his courage desert him. He tried to harness his inner-Aramis and smiled his most charming. “Madame, do I sense you suddenly have a vacancy on your staff? I am honest, hardworking and available to work every evening.”

  
Her suspicious glare transformed into a leer and just like that, he was employed. He suddenly found himself serving tables, moving barrels and breaking up fights. The work was hard, the conditions worse and the pay terrible but at least he got free food – of sorts. He also had something to do with his evenings instead of hanging around the Garrison or mooning in his room at Constance’s.

  
And so d’Artagnan learned of hard work that even long days on his father’s farm had not prepared him for.

  
He rose before dawn, reaching the Garrison in secret to tend to his own mare and help the stable lad with his chores – an arrangement Treville had agreed to in lieu of stable fees. He kept out of the way while breakfast was served, both to avoid temptation and the attention of the other Musketeers, especially his former team mates who he was sure would question why he wasn’t eating with them.

  
Then came hours of hard ‘training’ with Mathieu and his cronies where his role seemed to be more of a punch bag than a recruit. He quickly realised he could count on no constructive instruction, encouragement or respect – and even less sympathy.

  
Even more he ached for the hours of Athos’ patient teaching and realised he was grateful for it. At times on the training ground now, the muscle memory ingrained from hours of the same exercises seemed to be all that was keeping him alive.

  
On the days his team was sent out of the Garrison to patrol, the hostility was increased even further, his team leader not seeming to care that he ordered his youngster into open danger on more than one occasion. Again, d’Artagnan had to rely on everything his former team had taught him to avoid injury.

  
Over lunch he would duck out of sight once more, not that Mathieu cared either way whether the boy was getting regular meals. Once or twice, old Serge would spot him and pointedly ask him to ‘remove’ a couple of apples or ‘get rid of’ an unwanted portion of stew. d’Artagnan fell upon these unasked for bounties with a silent gratitude that was not lost on the old cook.

  
“Why do you not eat, lad?” Serge would ask, one eye squinting closed. The excuses would tumble out almost unbidden; “I’m still full from breakfast” or “I have no time right now” or “I will later”. Serge would turn back to the kitchen, mumbling to himself and not fooled for one moment.

  
After long afternoons spent on training or patrol, Musketeer duty would be completed with a final stint at the stables. d’Artagnan would then drag himself to the inn for back breaking hours of moving barrels, furniture and drunkards. At least he would usually finish his shift with the only meal of his day as he did his best to avoid the wandering eyes and hands of his mistress employer.

  
At last he would near crawl back to the Bonacieux for perhaps four hours of precious, precious rest before rising before dawn to do it all again.

  
Even in his mind this could not go on. He consoled himself that something would change – and soon.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has welcomed me and given lovely feedback - it is most gratefully received.  
> More experienced 'posters' than me have advised putting in more paragraph breaks to make the story easier to read. sorry I didn't realise this before!  
> In this chapter the three Musketeers start to see the damage being done to d'Artagnan and the recruits' contest gets underway. Warning for a tiny bit of bad language but I think you'll cope.

“Oi!” 

d’Artagnan couldn’t tell where the furious-sounding shout had come from, or even who had made it. He was too busy trying to catch his breath and stop the ringing in his ears as once more he found himself on his knees in the mud, sent there by another vicious two man attack from his ‘team’.

He did hear Mathieu scream in response “Du Vallon!”

Ah, Porthos then.

“This has nothing to do with you. Leave the training area at once and attend to your own affairs.” There was no doubting his team leader's fury at the interruption.

By this time, d’Artagnan felt the big man by his side and couldn’t help leaning very slightly into the hand that had settled on the back of his neck. It was the first gentle physical contact he had received in so very long and, ashamed as he was, at that moment he needed it badly. 

“You’re supposed to be training him, not killing him,” Porthos growled.

“The way I train my recruit is none of your affair.” Mathieu’s arrogance was there for all to hear. “You gave up the right to be involved in his training when you dumped him in favour of Lahogue. Maybe if you lot had gone a bit less easy on him then I wouldn’t need to be teaching him how real soldiers fight.”

There was no doubt d’Artagnan’s ‘training’ had been stepped up a notch over the last few days. With the recruits' contest about to begin, Mathieu had been forced into the annoying conclusion that his hated Gascon farmer’s boy was his best ever shot at winning the contest – and the coveted silver medal that went to the winning recruit’s team leader. 

He’d conveniently overlooked the fact that the credit for d’Artagnan’s considerable skill lay with his former team and not with him.

d’Artagnan gathered his wits enough to recognise the danger of appearing weak at this moment. The last thing he needed was anyone believing he didn’t deserve his place as a trainee musketeer. True, he knew he hadn’t fought well today but he was so, so tired. He head had already been pounding before the first blow had landed, and for some reason, his limbs just wouldn’t work the way they always had before. Nevertheless, he shrugged away from Porthos’ hand and whispered just loud enough for his friend to hear. “It’s OK Porthos. Do as he says and leave. I’m fine.”

As the big man begrudgingly stood, Mathieu once more approached and snarled at d’Artagnan. “Get to your feet, recruit. Defend yourself!”  
Porthos didn’t like it one bit but he had little choice but to retreat to the entrance of the stables from where Aramis had just emerged and witnessed the tail end of the confrontation.

“What was that about?” Aramis asked.

Porthos growled again. “Bastard Mathieu. His training is half-killing d’Artagnan, and the stubborn Whelp is letting ‘im! I don’t know ‘Mis, he looks in bad shape to me.”

“He’s lost weight,” Aramis agreed. “When did you last see him eat?” Porthos shrugged, not able to answer  
.  
They watched for a few moments more, long enough to see d’Artagnan again sent to his knees as he failed to block a move they had seen him deal with a hundred times before. Aramis winced. “I think that’s part of it but not all. There’s more going on here that we don’t know.”

Concentrating so fully on their young friend, neither man had sensed Athos exit the stables and stand by their shoulders, himself transfixed on what was happening on the training ground.

“What’s wrong with him? He’s better than that. No, no, no boy. Defend yourself.” he murmured as if to himself.

Suddenly he saw what was before him.

When had he allowed himself to forget how young d’Artagnan really was? When had he started to take him for granted as another of his brothers and forget he was still a stranger in a strange city, orphaned not six months before and still grieving? The boy conducted himself with such maturity most of the time that Athos had started to overlook how much guidance he still truly needed. He had done the boy a serious disservice.

As he watched his former protégé come undone on the training ground, something clicked within Athos. All the doubts and guilt that that plagued him for weeks fell away and for the first time in a while he was one hundred percent certain what to do.

“I made a mistake,” he said, again more to himself than to the other two.

“Two right you did, and that boy’s paying the price!” It was so rare for Porthos to pass judgement on either of his two brothers that even Aramis glanced at him sharply.  
But Athos was nodding his head. “I see that now. This is all my fault.” Decision made, he straightened and looked firmly at the other two. “The recruits' contest starts tomorrow. Regardless of whether d’Artagnan wins or loses, I’m going to Treville to request he be re-assigned to our team as soon as it’s over.

“I will come to some arrangement with Guy. I will offer to continue his sponsorship somehow but I believe he may be better served working with others.”  
His news was met with two of the warmest smiles his brothers had ever graced him with.

“I am pleased to hear that my friend. I don’t know if it will solve all the problems of our young Gascon but it will be a start,” Aramis commented.

Porthos agreed wholeheartedly. “Let’s get him back where he belongs – we can sort the rest from there. We’ve missed him.”

“Guy is…” Aramis struggled to find the right words, still feeling the need to be diplomatic about Athos’ family friend. Athos understood exactly what Aramis was doing and while he was grateful for his brother’s tact, he knew the time for pretence was over. “Guy is not d’Artagnan,” he finished simply.

************************************

Guy Lahogue drew back into the shadows of the stable door from where he had over-heard every word. His privileged upbringing had done nothing to stop him eavesdropping. He was furious to hear Athos intended to drop him and reinstate the idiot farm boy in his place.

Not that it would be a great loss to stop working with the other two – a half-bred Spanish lothario and a…a man of colour! It had been a fight not to cringe away each time Porthos even approached him, let alone the absurdity of being expected to take orders from such a man.

He had expected so much more from the King’s exclusive guard.

Even Athos seemed wine soaked and moody most of the time. But the former Comte was the best – everyone said so – and if there was anything Guy Lahogue was used to it was having the best. No, he needed to make sure Athos stuck with him.

The recruits’ contest was the way to do it. d’Artagnan had been a Musketeer in training for almost six months and the smart money around the Garrison seemed to be on him to win. Despite years of private tuition in gentlemen’s arts such as swords and pistols, Guy knew it was doubtful he could best his younger rival, especially at the other disciplines of hand-to-hand fighting and stamina.

But there was a possibility. d’Artagnan looked like a man about to drop – even Guy could see how his youthful spark and bounce had been lost of late. But was it enough? He didn’t know. He needed a plan to make sure.

************************************

d’Artagnan arrived at the Garrison the next morning for the first day of the recruits’ contest feeling better than he had done in a while. Although Porthos had been forced to withdraw from the confrontation with Mathieu yesterday, his new team leader had not wished to attract any further attention to his training methods and had actually dismissed the boy early for once.

That, plus the simple knowledge that Porthos had cared enough to try to intervene had cheered him immensely. 

Knowing the importance of the day ahead, Constance had managed to sneak him not only supper last night but breakfast this morning, dismissing his worries by assuring him that Bonacieux would not find out. In all, he had slept deeply – if not as long as he would have liked – and had risen feeling refreshed and ready to go.

He had used some of his rare free time yesterday to clean his pistol ready for this morning’s opening round. Each competing recruit had to report to the armoury early and hand in his weapon to Athos who would keep them under safe watch until the shooting contest began. d’Artagnan had long been instructed by the regiment’s sharpshooter Aramis to care lovingly for his pistol and so he knew the weapon was primed and in perfect condition.

Even better was the encouraging nod he received from Athos as he handed his pistol over. It was the most recognition he’d had from his former mentor in weeks. d’Artagnan found himself wondering whether Athos would be secretly cheering for him to succeed. His confidence soared as he left the armoury and headed for the table where breakfast was being provided for all competitors – amazingly d’Artagnan’s second meal of the day.

Guy made sure to give d’Artagnan a friendly smile and nod as they passed at the armoury door. It wouldn’t do to raise any suspicions by being openly hostile to his main rival.  
As he handed his own pistol to Athos, the fair-haired recruit took special notice of d’Artagnan’s weapon nestled on the table among the others.

“I wish you good fortune today,” Athos gave him the standard greeting and sent him on his way. Guy grinned as he went to join the others at the breakfast table. This would be too easy!

After the meal, he approached the young boy who ran errands and helped Serge in the kitchens. He was a simple lad, known to be willing but somewhat short on wits. Guy explained patiently the message he needed him to deliver and handed over a few coin – more than the lad would earn for a week’s work. “If Monsieur Athos asks, you must not tell him that I sent you, do you understand? It is a trick we are playing and Captain Treville will be angry if you spoil it.”

The boy looked uneasy at the request but he agreed – he was well aware of the pranks certain Musketeers played, especially his three favourites Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan but had never seen the rather intimidating Athos involved. But then, this must be good trick if even the Captain was involved.

At the appointed time the boy stuck his head into the armoury. “Monsieur Athos sir, Captain Treville asks to see you. He asks for you to wait for him in his office.” Athos was torn. He was supposed to be guarding the pistols but he knew Treville wouldn’t have asked to see him if it wasn’t urgent. There were, after all, more important things going on in Paris today than a soldiers’ competition. Making sure to lock the armoury door carefully he made his way up the stairs to his Captain’s office.

Guy wasted no time in fishing out the spare armoury key he’d lifted from the stores yesterday. Honestly, for a soldiers’ garrison, security was lax here!

Quickly he reached for d’Artagnan’s pistol and made the adjustments he wanted. He was out, door locked again behind him, before anyone even noticed he’d moved from the breakfast table.

After waiting impatiently for an absent Treville, Athos emerged from the office and tracked down his messenger. “I can’t find the Captain boy. Are you sure he said his office?” Remembering his instruction and the extra coin in his pocket, the lad showed his most guileless smile and lied easily. “Yes Sir. I don’t know what happened Sir.”

None the wiser, Athos returned to pistol guard duty in the armoury.

************************************

When the time came, the recruits lined up before the targets for the opening round of the contest. There were six young men taking part this year. All the other musketeers crowded around the edge of the training ground and on the balcony above, eager to watch the show. Athos and Porthos leaned against the stable door in full view of the proceedings. Aramis had taken his place by the targets as competition judge along with Treville.

Two of the contestants took their shots, both achieving solid but not brilliant scores. Guy stepped forward for his turn, hitting three of the targets dead centre and the other two slightly off. The spectator’s cheered – it was a good score and would be hard to beat.

d’Artagnan settled at the stand, took a deep breath, aimed and squeezed the trigger.

It was then the unthinkable happened. His pistol backfired, jolting out of his grasp and showering his fingers with sparks. d’Artagnan immediately dropped the weapon, pain flaring across his palm where flesh had burned.

There were surprised gasps from the watching Musketeers but it was Athos who moved, rushing to the side of the shocked Gascon in a moment.

“Idiot boy!” he hissed, taking d’Artagnan’s hand in his own and peering at the damage. “What have we told you about preparing your weapon thoroughly before firing?” The normally unflappable lieutenant spoke sharply, genuine fear for what might have happened making him lash out before thinking.

“Athos! I did! I cleaned it properly last night. There was nothing wrong with the pistol, I swear it!” By this time Captain Treville and Aramis had reached the stand. “Take a look Aramis. Treat the wound and decide if he’s fit enough to continue,” the captain commanded.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” d’Artagnan hissed, distraught at the idea of being made to withdraw before his contest had even begun.

“Mmm, I think it’s OK,” Aramis concurred after examining the hand. “Give me a minute to apply a salve and a bandage and he should be able to continue.”  
d’Artagnan scowled and almost snatched his hand away. He did stand still however and allowed the medic to tend the wound.

“Are you sure you can shoot?” Athos asked. Still bristling from the implication his former mentor somehow thought this was his fault, d’Artagnan spat back. “Of course I’m alright. Shouldn’t you be checking on your own man?”

Stung but accepting the criticism, Athos shrugged slightly and withdrew to the stable door where Porthos still watched. Neither could help but notice that Mathieu was utterly unconcerned by his recruit’s injury.

“OK d’Artagnan, when you’re ready.” Treville gave his shoulder a squeeze before retreating to the targets area.

d’Artagnan stepped forward again, taking steadying breaths to get his shaking muscles back under control. Taking careful aim at the first target, he fired. The pistol discharged cleanly but d’Artagnan frowned. The ball was embedded a good few inches to the left of centre – not where he’d aimed at all. 

He took more deep breaths while reloading. It must be the shock, he decided. He aimed down the sight more carefully, but again he missed the target’s centre on the left, the second ball ending in almost the same spot as the first.

With shaking hands he loaded a third time. This time he sighted the target and then compensated by shifting his aim slightly to the right. The result was a better shot but still not perfect.

There was no doubt in his mind now, the pistol’s sight was off. Trying to clear his mind he completed his last two shots, compensating further to the right and scoring two perfect centres. Good shots but he knew the damage had been done.

“Tough luck. Rotten time for a misfire,” Guy sympathised as d’Artagnan re-joined the competitors’ line. The final two competitors took their shots unnoticed by the young Gascon. He racked his brain for how this could have happened. Misfires could happen at any time – he could accept that as a pure accident. But misaligned sights as well? There was only one answer and that made him go cold all over. Someone had tampered with his weapon.

But who? His five rivals in the contest were the obvious suspects but while any of them may have the motive, he couldn’t see how they’d had the opportunity. Mathieu? Certainly he seemed to detest d’Artagnan but he’d been at the breakfast table all morning. Besides, why would he? He’d made it clear he expected his new trainee to win the silver medal for him – failure was not an option.

There was only one man who had been left alone with the pistols all morning. But surely it was unthinkable! 

He allowed his eyes to wander to the stables where Athos lounged, eyes barely visible under his hat. As if he sensed d’Artagnan’s glance, he looked up and their eyes met just for a moment. d’Artagnan quickly pulled away, not liking the question he thought he saw there.

He knew things between him and Athos had been strained since Guy’s arrival. Hell no, Athos had simply ignored him ever since but surely he didn’t hate his former apprentice enough to ruin his chance in the contest. Never mind risking serious injury from a misfiring pistol.

At the lunchtime break on the first day of the recruits’ contest, Guy Lahogue led the field with d’Artagnan way behind in fifth place.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you're enjoying this - thanks again for letting me know.  
> I can't work out which box I've checked to get the yellow 'adult warning' tab at the beginning of the story. I hope people won't be disappointed to find out there really isn't any serious adult content coming. I'll keep trying to remove it!  
> Anyway, today we learn a little more of our baddy's background and d'Artagnan takes part in the second round of the contest.

 

Guy Lahogue was an over-confident man. His confidence was not borne of pride in his own achievements; in truth he’d hardly achieved anything at all in his 26 years. No, his self-confidence was that of a man who’d generally got what he wanted, either by simply asking for it or gently manipulating those around him.

As the younger son of a rich landowner he had been indulged as a child. Possessions had come easily to him, as had attention from his parents, family servants and a stream of well-paid tutors employed to ensure he and his brother were educated in all the arts, sciences and skills befitting of French gentry.

Determined to raise his sons well, Edmund Lahogue was a realistic man who recognised his family’s place in the pecking order of society. Rich they may be but noble they were not – no title, old or new, decorated his name unlike his dear friend and neighbour, the Comte de la Fere.  This detail was never important to Edmund who understood that a man’s true worth should be measured in his achievements and values and not through an inherited title. He had no interest in attending Court and was more than content with his privileged lot in life.

He happily encouraged Guy’s childhood friendship with the de la Fere boys, Thomas in particular. The two were the same age and like most people, Edmund was charmed by Thomas’s _joi de vive_. In truth, with the lack of tact common in any child, Thomas de la Fere took every opportunity to remind Guy that they were only ‘almost equal’ – that at the end of the day, his own father’s title would always place him naturally above his friend.

And so almost unknowingly Guy Lahogue began to adopt the same attitude to those around him. If his best friend could look down on him then he in turn could look down on almost everyone else. It wasn’t exactly arrogance, rather a childish recognition that this was simply the way of things.

His father had seen this trait in his son and found it distasteful. As the years went by he saw his youngest son grow into a man without direction or purpose. The estate would be safe in the hands of his eldest, but what of the younger? The boy seemed to have no interest in the priesthood and clearly believed all manner of trades and professions to be beneath him.

With the sands of time quickly running out on his own life, Edmund had concluded that years of expensive fencing and shooting tuition could be put to best use through a career in the military. He hoped that a soldier’s life would round off some of his son’s rough edges, particularly his superior attitude to other men.

At first Guy had been vehemently opposed to his father’s wishes.  He could see no soldier’s life being worthy of a Lahogue and the argument raged between them for months before Edmund played his trump card – his godson’s new life in the most regal of all soldiers, the King’s own Regiment of Musketeers.

Guy could see the sense in this straightaway. If he must be shipped off to the military then the Musketeers were preferable to all else.  He agreed – on the condition that Edmund pressed upon Olivier de la Fere for an introduction and apprenticeship. Again, if he were forced to serve then at least he would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a Comte, even one who had seemingly turned his back on the lifestyle.

Like everyone who hailed from the area of Pinon, Guy knew of Thomas’s death and the subsequent condemnation of the Comtess – it was nothing short of the scandal of the decade.  Very few knew more than the basic facts and Guy Lahogue, despite his family’s closeness to the de la Feres, was not one of them. He’d long suspected his father knew all the sordid details but no amount of hints and wheedling would get him to part with them. Whatever Edmund knew he took it to his grave.

Surprisingly Guy was not particularly curious about the facts of the death of his childhood friend, nor Anne’s execution. What he really desired to know was what could possibly drive a Comte away from his title, mansion, status, respect…everything that he himself longed for.

His arrival in Paris had gone according to plan. Olivier – now Athos – had welcomed him and accepted his godfather’s treaty of apprenticeship. He’d even made room in his team by bumping out the Gascon farmer’s son.

He’d recognised immediately that Athos was the regiment’s most respected soldier – hardly surprising given his background. Athos was acknowledged by the King himself and everyone knew he was the certain choice to succeed Treville one day. Yes, stick close to Athos and glory would come to Guy sooner or later.

He’d been shocked to overhear Athos declare his ‘mistake’ regarding d’Artagnan and his intention to reinstate the youngster at Guy’s expense. He’d wasted no time in ensuring his rival failed to shine in the opening round of the recruits’ contest. Making Athos and Treville believe d’Artagnan had actually been negligent in the care of his weapons was an added bonus.

Now he carefully weighed the need to do more to sabotage d’Artagnan’s reputation against the chance of being caught in the act. Why take additional risk? With the boy clearly not on top form, plus the injury to his hand sustained today, Guy felt he could hammer home his advantage by besting him fair and square in hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship. By that time the contest would be his and the result of the final event – a punishing long-distance run carrying heavy saddlebags – would be of no matter.

Hardly failing to keep a smile from his face, Guy ate his lunch secure that once more he would get what he wanted. He was indeed an over-confident man.

**************************************

 

d’Artagnan skipped lunch all together. Partly he wanted to avoid Aramis and the inevitable fussing over his burned hand. Partly he simply wasn’t hungry, his body having adjusted to much less food lately. But mostly he couldn’t bear to be anywhere near Athos because even the slight chance his mentor had tampered with his pistol made his skin crawl from his ears to his ankles.

Could it have been him? And if it was, did that mean Porthos and Aramis were also involved? d’Artagnan knew the three of them as well as any man in Paris with the possible exception of Treville, and he knew they rarely acted without each other. Did this mean he didn’t know them at all? Impossible. Yes? No?

In this way, d’Artagnan spent long minutes almost literally licking his wounds and swinging wildly between his friend’s certain guilt or innocence.  Confused and more than a little dazed, he stumbled back into the courtyard only shortly before Treville called the contestants for the afternoon’s event – hand-to-hand fighting.

He might have known he wouldn’t escape attention that easily. As soon as he emerged, Aramis fell neatly into step with him as though he’d been waiting.  “Ah, there you are my friend. I missed you at lunch. I wanted to look at that hand of yours,” Aramis’ tone was light, disguising his worry.

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan ground out, not breaking stride.

“Well I’d still like to…”

“Aramis! Later please! I’ve no time now. The Captain is calling for us to start. Later, you can look at it later, yes?”

Still Aramis would not be deterred. His young friend’s strangely detached manner was making him even more concerned. He put his hand onto d’Artagnan arm, stopping him mid-stride and making him turn.

“d’Artagnan, are you OK? Did you even eat lunch?” d’Artagnan looked at him then. Really looked at him, straight in the eye as though searching for something vitally important to his very being. After a long moment, the youngster let his gaze drop and sighed softly. “Honestly, I’m fine Aramis. I’ll see you later, yes?”

With that he jogged towards the competition area. Aramis was left standing, wondering what test he had just passed.

**************************************

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was so stupid! d’Artagnan berated himself as he made his way over to where the other five contestants were waiting. How could he have ever suspected his three best friends of working against him? He’d looked into Aramis’ eyes and seen only kindness and concern. With the exception of his father, these were the best three men he had ever known. They had taken him virtually off the street and supported him unconditionally, despite the many rash mistakes he’d made.

Porthos was the most honest man imaginable; Aramis the most compassionate and Athos the most honourable.

So what if they’d decided he wasn’t good enough to stay within their group? After everything they had done over the last six months they deserved so much more than his suspicion. The deserved to be shown how much he valued every lesson they had taught him, every minute spent patiently explaining how to improve and every indulgence when he’d not got it right first time.

He would do this now by winning this damn contest. Show the whole of Paris that these men could take a fairly hopeless farm boy and turn him into passable Musketeer material.

“Are you ready d’Artagnan?” Treville’s question cut through his thoughts.

“I am Captain” he replied, new-found determination ringing in his voice.

“Good. Each of you will fight each other in a straight pair’s contest. Porthos and I will score based on the usual rules – hits landed and falls achieved. Anyone seriously incapacitated or unconscious will be disqualified from this round of the contest. No biting or eye-gouging allowed.”

“Other than that, there’re no rules. Everythin’ goes,” Porthos smirked, rocking back on his heels in anticipation of the entertainment to come.

d’Artagnan squared up for his first bout, his opponent the biggest of the five by far. This bothered d’Artagnan not one bit, used as he was to sparing against Porthos. He’d learned that when he couldn’t out-muscle an enemy, he needed to rely on his far greater speed and agility. He cleared his mind and brought to bear everything his big friend had taught him.

Porthos couldn’t help but glow with pride as the leaner man dodged and danced around his opponent just as they’d practiced a hundred times, tempting him forwards but always staying just out of reach. He knew exactly how it would go – the bigger fighter would eventually become frustrated and present d’Artagnan with a clear opening.

As anticipated the big man howled and lunged forward carelessly, dropping his guard just for a moment. It was all d’Artagnan needed. His leg-sweep was lightning fast and with a crash, his rival found himself on his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs.  d’Artagnan knew he could have hammered home his advantage by punishing his opponent as he lay on the ground but that was not the honourable option. He stood back, allowing the larger man to clamber to his feet before taking his opening stance again.

This pattern repeated itself three more times until Treville called a halt and declared d’Artagnan the winner. “Well done lad. Fair fight, fairly won,” the other man conceded as they exchanged a fore-arm grasp.

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan gasped, slightly out of breath. “Good luck in your next bout.”

The next three fights unfolded in a similar way, d’Artagnan using all Porthos’ experience to quickly assess his challenger’s fighting style and adjust his own accordingly. The results were the same with a clear victory in each for the young Gascon.

Although effective, his style was not without cost. By the time Treville called a halt to the fourth bout d’Artagnan was breathing heavily and stretching out muscles that were screaming under the constant strain of fast-paced fighting.  His left temple and hip were also throbbing dully from where his rivals had got lucky and landed a vicious elbow and kick, and he was fairly sure the already-damaged skin on his hand had torn further and was bleeding sluggishly under Aramis’ dressing. It certainly hurt like the devil.

But he was not alone.  Every bout had been intense and all six contestants were carrying various minor injuries. After a quick assessment Captain Treville announced a short rest break before each man faced his last opponent – d’Artagnan would be facing Guy Lahogue who was also undefeated so far.

Aramis hung back from approaching d’Artagnan during the break.  His young friend was Mathieu’s apprentice now and as such it was for Mathieu to check his condition and well-being.  Athos had duly gone to Guy, although Aramis couldn’t help but notice the appraising glances their leader was sending towards his former protégé.

Seeing Mathieu continue to lounge against a bench and laugh with his friends, Aramis had just made up his mind to ignore protocol and offer his support to their youngest when Treville called an end to the rest break and ordered the contestants to take their places for the final fight.

d’Artagnan and Guy stepped forward, watched by most of the men in the Garrison. This was the match they wanted to see and many had spent the break period placing wagers on the outcome.

Guy was aware the younger man would start on the defensive while he figured out Guy’s fighting style and looked for the perfect opening. He knew d’Artagnan relied on his explosive speed but he also knew the lad was tired and must have limited reserves in his tank. He was determined to exploit this by keeping d’Artagnan moving, never letting him settle or work out a pattern to his own style. He also noted the stiffness around the Gascon’s injured hip and deliberately concentrated his blows in this area.

For his part, d’Artagnan recognised his opponent’s tactic and slowed down his own style in response, continuing to dodge the more obvious punches and kicks, using quick counter-attacks to land blows of his own.

This cat-and-mouse game went on for what seemed like an age with neither fighter gaining a clear advantage. Treville was on the verge of calling a tied match when d’Artagnan leapt back to avoid a well-disguised kick. Surprise coupled with near-exhaustion meant the move lacked his usual grace and he landed with his full weight on his bruised leg, sending a fierce spike of pain through his hip and back.

Stumbling he went down on one knee, trying desperately to catch his breath. He was aware of Guy pouncing forward and knew that if he allowed the heavier man to land a blow from above then all would be lost.

Then, as clear as if the big man was right by his side, he heard Porthos in his head, urging him to _wait, wait, wait_ until the very last possible second. Just as Guy surged forward to plant the decisive blows d’Artagnan executed a desperate move, heaving upwards with every ounce of strength behind his right shoulder while at the same time bringing up his uninjured leg to take his opponent’s feet from beneath him.

Totally blindsided by the unorthodox move, Guy found himself flying backwards to crash onto the hard packed dirt. It was hard to tell who was the more surprised at the success of the move – Guy or d’Artagnan who suddenly realised he was unable to stop his momentum and flew forward, landing with an ‘ouff’ across the bigger man’s body, rolling off immediately to lie panting on the ground.

The pounding of blood in his head almost totally drowned out the roars of the spectators as Treville yelled: “A clear fall! The fight goes to d’Artagnan!”

Long seconds passed as both fighters struggled to regain the energy to move. Feeling eyes on him d’Artagnan glanced to his opponent and was taken aback by the undisguised hatred that burned on his face. As quick as it came the look was gone, replaced by a sickly smile as Guy schooled his features. Then as the blond man started to get to his feet, he twisted clumsily towards d’Artagnan’s legs and, appearing to stumble, fell forward into one knee, landing with all his weight upon the Gascon’s ankle.

Suppressing a scream, d’Artagnan pushed him away but knew some damage had been done. The quickest of looks around him confirmed no one had seen what had happened as the bulk of Guy’s body had hidden his move from the crowds most of whom were busy congratulating or commiserating each other on the fight outcome.

“Woah, are you OK? So sorry about that, totally lost my balance,” Guy offered out his hand to help d’Artagnan back to standing. “Great fight. You have my congratulations on your victory.”

The youngster winced as his weight settled on his ankle. He knew with certainty there was not one ounce of sincerity behind the other’s words. About to lash out furiously he was halted by Treville placing a hand on both contestants’ shoulder. “Terrific fight, both of you. You are both a credit to this contest.” Then with a sly glance towards Porthos he added: “That was quite a move to win it d’Artagnan, can’t imagine where you learned that one!”

Grinning, Porthos held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me Captain. That was all d’Artagnan.”

Not letting go of either contestant, Treville raised his voice so everyone could hear. “That finishes the recruits’ contest for today. Tomorrow morning sees swords before lunch, after which the leading two recruits will compete in the endurance run to decide the overall winner.”

Lowering his tone once more he spoke just to the six competitors. “Right men. Anyone carrying injuries should report to the infirmary for treatment. Afterwards, go home, eat and rest. I will see you at first light tomorrow.”

“d’Artagnan, infirmary. Now.” The youngster knew Aramis was just being a mother hen but still seething from Guy’s dirty move he really wasn’t in the mood. Nevertheless he nodded and started towards the sick room, trying his utmost not to limp openly. As soon as he knew he was out of sight, he ducked into the cool shadow of another building and slowly sank down until he was seated, resting against a wall, still trying to get a hold on his temper.

He had no intention of reporting to the infirmary to be poked and prodded. The way he was feeling now he was fairly sure any healer would look at his injuries and insist he retire from the contest. His hard-fought victory in hand-to-hand had put him right back in the race and this, coupled with the memory of Guy’s hatred and dishonourable behaviour made him more determined than ever to carry on and win.

After getting both his emotions and the pain under control, d’Artagnan pushed himself back to his feet and slowly made his way out of the Garrison’s rear gate. Tomorrow, he knew, would come too soon.

**************************************

 

Aramis was furious. He was fully aware of his young Gascon friend’s tendency to hide his injuries but this really was too much. Three times during the day the lad had avoided proper medical attention and now he’d failed to report to the infirmary as ordered.

Blustering, Aramis hammered on the door of the Bonacieux house for long minutes despite the lack of response or any indication that anyone was at home. He had been certain that d’Artagnan would have returned here after his escape and was hell-bent that he would be dragged back for treatment, by his hair if that was the only option.

“d’Artagnan!” he bellowed as he continued to thump his fist on the wood. “d’Artagnan! You bloody well get down here now. You hear me, you stubborn Gascon! d’Artagnan!”

Finally as neighbours started to look angrily at his continued efforts, Aramis had to concede that either d’Artagnan was not inside or was determined to remain hidden. With the door locked and no tell-tale candles flickering behind the shutters Aramis had no option other than to give up. Perhaps the youngster had, after all, gone onto the Wren for a meal. With a final frustrated kick at the door he moved on with his search.

Inside his room, d’Artagnan listened with relief as Aramis moved away. He’d give it a few minutes before feeling safe enough to light a small candle.

He’d arrived home to a thankfully empty house and had proceeded to treat his body as best he could. He’d wrapped the burn on his hand in clean linens and struggled to draw ice-cold water from the well.  He now slumped awkwardly on the bed, ankle soaking in a chamber-pot full of icy water and cold, wet cloths draped over his badly bruised hip. He took steady deep breaths and relaxed into the sensation of the pain numbing away.

He was grateful he’d had the foresight to cry off working at the tavern that night. Perhaps it had been a premonition, he didn’t know. Either way his lady employer had not been happy but had grudgingly agreed.

d’Artagnan could do nothing however about the all-too familiar feeling of hunger scratching like an angry cat in his belly. Even with no-one in the house he didn’t dare take so much as an apple from Constance’s store for fear of how Bonacieux would treat her if he discovered the theft.  The coward would always turn his anger upon his wife rather than directly challenge the apprentice musketeer. d’Artagnan hated him for it.

 

**************************************

 

“Where is he?” Athos didn’t waste time on pleasantries as he finally met with Aramis and Porthos in the Wren. Both knew exactly who he was referring to but both could do no more than shrug and shake their heads.

Aramis sighed and ran his hand through his curls. “I was sure he’d head to Constance but I’ve yelled myself hoarse there – he’s either not there or is determined not to be found.”

“Mathieu?”

“Off with his cronies, badmouthing d’Artagnan all the way. Clearly doesn’t give a sot whether he’s alive or dead. Sorry,” Aramis apologised as his ill-timed words drew a visible flinch from Athos. Porthos chimed in: “Do you know the bastard bet against him in the fight?  Win or lose, the poor kid was damned.”

Athos swore and then sank dejectedly into a chair, snagging a bottle of red from a passing barmaid. Since they’d realised d’Artagnan had disappeared from the Garrison at the end of the fight they’d scoured all his known haunts but now had to admit their stubborn young friend had gone to ground.

“Not sure we can really blame him,” Porthos said sadly. “We haven’t exactly been worthy friends these last few weeks. But still, I thought he’d come to us when he was hurt.”

Athos grunted. “There’s nothing we can do except hope he turns up reasonably whole in the morning.”  The three passed a morose night, each steeped in worry for their youngest.

 

**************************************

 

Across the city, Guy Lahogue passed a more relaxed evening. It had been a good day, his plan to sabotage the Gascon farm boy’s pistol more successful than he’d dared hope.  He was confident the entire contest was in his grasp now.

He hummed a little as he flexed his sore muscles in the over-filled tub of hot water he’d had dragged to his rooms. True he’d been annoyed that the whelp had managed to best him in the final fight of the day but, he thought smugly, at least he’d made sure the little prick had a very sore ankle for his trouble. Shame he’d not quite managed to break it – that would have put the kid out of the contest for good.

No, the only real black spot of the day had come after the excitement of the contest was over. He’d exuberantly clasped Athos on the shoulder assuming they’d go together to their favourite tavern to celebrate his place at the top of the leader board. Athos had shrugged away from his grasp and politely but firmly refused, telling him to return to his rooms and rest for tomorrow. Guy frowned at the memory – Athos’ tone had brokered no argument. This was a dismissal, plain and simple.

His team leader had then left the Garrison in the company of Porthos and Aramis, the three sharing tense body language, concerned looks and hushed whispers.

Never mind, he could wait until tomorrow to properly celebrate. He was confident he could take an injured and clearly exhausted d’Artagnan in a swordfight, leaving just the endurance run to complete in order to claim victory. And if things started to go awry?  Well, he still had a few insurance plans up his sleeve just to make sure.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with my favourite part of the contest - the sword fighting. There's quite a burst of bad language ahead but more on that at the end of the chapter.   
> As before, thanks for the lovely comments, I'm so glad you're enjoying the story.

  


  


The night was a great deal more unpleasant for the subject of Guy’s scheming. Try as he might d’Artagnan couldn’t find a comfortable position either sitting or lying. Wracked with hunger and exhaustion, he did no more than doze through the dark hours.

Rousing himself before dawn he was relieved to find his basic first aid had at least helped his injured foot and hip significantly. Standing gingerly he found he could bear his weight, if not comfortably, at least without too much pain.

The burn on his hand was another matter. Unwrapping the linens, he could see the skin around it was puckered and warm to the touch. Frowning he recognised the signs of minor infection. Re-wrapping it, he promised himself to let Aramis take a look as early as possible. Stubborn he may be, but totally stupid he wasn’t. Infections were not something to fool around with.

Despite his difficult night, d’Artagnan felt oddly clear-headed in the growing morning light. This was the final day of the recruits’ contest – victory today would garner attention from His Majesty moving him one step closer to his elusive commission. Winning would also reward him with the small purse of coin – enough to at least settle his debt with Bonacieux and feed himself until the mystery of his missing farm income could be solved.

Most of all winning the contest would allow him to prove to The Inseparables that their months of faith in him had not been in vain. That he had learned from their patient tutelage and had put their lessons to good value. That, he felt as he fastened his weapons belt, would probably be the best reward of all.

 

***************************************

 

Knowing he needed the energy from something within his belly, d’Artagnan spent a precious coin on a single, plain pastry from the nearby bakery – Treville’s regiment finances not stretching to providing free food two days running. The youngster timed his entry to just minutes before the next round of the recruits’ contest was to begin, entering the Garrison and resolutely ignoring Athos who greeted his arrival with silent steely glares.

Aramis was a different matter. As expected he was at his side within seconds, clearly itching to check his hurts.

“How are you this morning?” he asked, his voice just too breezy.  d’Artagnan flinched. Unperturbed Aramis pressed on. “We looked for you last night. Athos was _disappointed_ you couldn’t be found.”

d’Artagnan shrugged. “I was tired. I needed to rest.”

Aramis nodded. “And did you? Rest, I mean?”

d’Artagnan shrugged again, although the dark circles under his eyes gave away the truth.

“And what of your injuries from yesterday? Will you put my mind at rest by allowing me to take a look?”

d’Artagnan shrugged for a third time, making his older friend want to scream. “I’m OK. Except my hand. It’s a bit sore. Perhaps you could tend it after the swords?”

Somewhat surprised at this admission, Aramis nodded anxiously. “Of course. Are you sure it will wait ‘til then? I could ask Treville to postpone the start while I treat it?”

“No, not necessary. Look for me at the lunch break – you can do it then.” With that, d’Artagnan left his frustrated friend and strode across to the contest arena for the start of the sword fighting.

As d’Artagnan drew close, he heard Treville report that two of the original six contestants had been withdrawn by the Garrison medic because of injuries sustained during yesterday’s hand-to-hand.  He felt sympathy for the two but also relieved – this meant two less opponents to face this morning.

He also felt vindicated in his decision to avoid the infirmary the previous day. He felt sure that if the medic had got his hands on him then there would be three withdrawn candidates this morning instead of just two.

Next Treville announced a surprise change to the format for the sword fighting. As only four recruits remained, he’d decided to make this a simple knock-out contest. Using straws the four would be drawn into pairs for the first bout with the two winners then facing off in the final to decide the overall victor.

d’Artagnan stepped forward to take his straw and grimaced only slightly as he saw he’d drawn Ruben, a good friend among the recruits.  He’d hoped to be able to face Guy Lahogue first while he felt relatively fresh and his injuries reasonably under control. But it wasn’t to be helped.

Ruben was a good swordsman but not really in the same league as either d’Artagnan or Lahogue.  d’Artagnan knew he needed to get through the match as quickly as possible, and without making his injuries any worse.

He was mostly successful. d’Artagnan wasn’t arrogant by nature but he knew swordsmanship was his strongest discipline. The skills taught to him by his father and practiced through endless hours in a Gascon farmyard had been diligently refined and polished by Athos, the man d’Artagnan would forever call France’s greatest swordsman.

The result was a style that was all d’Artagnan’s – a mixture of provincial directness tempered with classical flourishes. It was unique and very effective.

Today the soreness in his ankle and hip hampered his natural athleticism, making him slightly less light on his feet. Immediately he started to compensate by favouring his better leg, hoping he was disguising his weakness well enough. There was one man, for sure, who would not be fooled. Athos knew d’Artagnan’s fighting style as well he knew his own and the younger man fancied he could feel the eyes of his former mentor burn into the back of his head as he flexed and parried his way through the opening moves of his bout.

d’Artagnan strongly doubted that Athos would believe he was conserving his energy for later but at that moment he couldn’t break focus to look around.

Suddenly d’Artagnan saw his opening and immediately pressed home his advantage, twisting his blade at just the right moment and giving his opponent no option but to yield. Panting hard, Ruben suddenly found himself on his backside, from where he grinned ruefully and extended his hand to the young Gascon.

“I knew you’d have me my friend” he said good-naturedly. “One day I’ll have you teach me that move.” d’Artagnan gripped his forearm and pulled him to his feet, grinning in return and whispered in his friend’s ear: “Sorry to make it so short today Ruben but I need to go again in a few minutes and I haven’t the energy to play.”

“Don’t worry. Good luck against Lahogue. Between you and me, all the other recruits want you to win. You deserve it so much more.”

d’Artagnan leaned forward and briefly touched his forehead to his friend’s, letting him know how much this vote of confidence meant to him. It felt a long time since he’d had anyone in his corner.

Discretely testing his ankle, he was relieved to confirm the pain was still controllable. Unable to stop himself, d’Artagnan stole a glance at Athos and ducked away instantly as he saw the man staring back at him, stock still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. No, Athos had not been fooled for a moment.

As expected while D’Artagnan had been engaged with Ruben, Guy Lahogue had comfortably beaten his own opponent, once more setting up a final match between the pair.

“Gentlemen,” Treville called out, “the final bout will be between d’Artagnan and Guy Lahogue. Since you both dispatched your first opponent so quickly, the final will be a best of five clear hits, falls or disarmaments. Take your positions and good luck.”

d’Artagnan did his level best to ignore Guy’s arrogant smirk as the two faced each other and bowed. He raised Alexander d’Artagnan’s sword to signal his readiness to begin.

After circling each other cautiously, Guy made the first move, as d’Artagnan knew he would. Guy had been taught from childhood by expensive classical swordsmasters, exactly as Athos had. While the blond lacked the older man’s natural talent, he was well schooled and a dangerous opponent.

This was a style d’Artagnan knew well and his muscle memory responded to the rhythm of the strikes, parries and thrusts, his feet moving almost automatically in sync with his arm.  As the dance went on, d’Artagnan found himself tiring far quicker than usual and acknowledged how Guy was using his greater body weight to force him onto his injured leg.

Doubt began to creep in to the youngster’s mind. Guy fought like Athos and d’Artagnan had never beaten Athos.  He recognised the opening moves of a sequence Athos used and which d’Artagnan had never been able to defend against. Panic joined the doubt and before he could stop it, his sword was wrenched out of his hand and clattered onto the ground.

“First round to Lahogue,” Treville declared amid cheers, jeers and groans from the watching crowd.

Once again d’Artagnan raised his father’s sword to begin. He knew Athos regularly urged him to temper his emotion and fight with his head instead of his heart so he tried to do just that, putting aside his own style and attempting to match Guy’s clinical moves.  

 _“Concentrate, focus, concentrate, focus,”_ he could feel the words over and over in his brain like some mad mantra as the steel blades clashed again and again but somehow it didn’t help and once more he found himself being drawn into a sequence with an inevitable end – this time he found himself down on one knee, Guy’s blade pressed lightly to the back of his neck.

D’Artagnan was struggling now with a full blown panic and he allowed his head to fall forward so his long hair blocked out the sight and sound of the baying crowd just for a moment. He forced himself to get control of his breathing and to think through the fog in his brain. How could he beat Athos? He’d never beaten Athos. He couldn’t beat Athos.

But that was it, wasn’t it? This wasn’t Athos! This was Guy Lahogue, the imposter who had taken d’Artagnan’s place and was now coming close to taking his future as well. Guy Lahogue might fight like Athos but he was not him. He was nowhere near as good and never would be.

d’Artagnan raised his head and acknowledged the answer. He needed to stop showing this man so much respect and fight him on his own terms. Head over heart be damned! He needed every ounce of his heart right now, like never before.

He got to his feet again and signalled his readiness to begin. He raised his eyes to his those of his opponent and met the answering smirk with a challenging, almost feral, grin.

d’Artagnan knew how he could end this. Every time he sparred with Athos it was a lesson. His mentor had been determined to teach him the classic moves of sword fighting because that was the most effective way to defeat an untrained and undisciplined enemy. During those sessions d’Artagnan knew he was expected to produce the correct response and did so out of total respect for his teacher even though he had yet to master the technique fully.

But this was no lesson and the man in front of him was no Athos. With a low growl, d’Artagnan now unleashed his full fury onto the man before him. Fancy footwork to Hell, he drove him back with chop after slash after blow until the watching crowd was forced to part and Guy found himself with his back to a Garrison post, nowhere left to go and d’Artagnan’s sword inches from his throat.

“Hit to d’Artagnan,” Treville called. “Places again gentlemen.”

Once more the pair engaged, d’Artagnan now firmly refusing to be drawn into Guy’s game, recognising each of his classic moves and cleverly avoiding them instead of responding. With little real experience to supplement his fancy lessons, Guy lacked the ability to adapt his own style and had no answer to the whirling devil he now found himself facing. Suddenly d’Artagnan lunged and then with lightening reflexes withdrew leaving Guy floundering in mid-air and, half a second later, flat on his face.

The watching Musketeers roared with laughter at the sheer audacity of the move. Treville’s voice could heard again. “Second hit to d’Artagnan. Score two each. Gentlemen, prepare to go again. The next hit decides the match.”

d’Artagnan was breathing heavily but his blood was now ninety percent adrenalin blocking out the piercing pain from his muscles and injuries. The remaining ten percent was screaming that he would pay later but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to listen or care. His entire existence came down to finishing this fight.

Beyond furious at being made to look so foolish Guy Lahogue was fast losing all reason. Somehow a fight that was easily under control was slipping from his grasp, all because the boy in front of him was refusing to _play properly_.

Once more he opened a move and once more d’Artagnan danced out of his reach this time actually leaping sideways onto one of the wooden bench seats to effectively avoid a low sweep. The move drew raucous laughter from the sides and this time d’Artagnan couldn’t stop a somewhat cocky answering grin.

That was the end for Lahogue as his ever-present mask of control finally disintegrated. All composure gone, he lunged forward and let loose an ear splitting torrent of words that cut through the background noise like a lightning bolt.

“Come down and fight me you worthless piece of shit! You penniless son of a Gascon whore! You coward! You farmland peasant! You base pretender! You cuckoo! You cock-sucking, arse-licking, thieving _nobody_!”

The silence that fell around the Garrison was deafening, Lahogue’s scandalous words causing every man present to simply stand and qawp at his spectacular breakdown. Even Captain Treville was too shocked to react. Then a collective growl came from the corner of the crowd where the Inseparables watched and as one, three bodies surged forward to answer the despicable slur on their youngster’s honour.

But they weren’t fast enough. The subject of the insults let loose an enraged scream and leapt from his bench, sword sizzling through the silence in a blur of motion. Just three moves was all it took for d’Artagnan’s pure force to send Lahogue’s sword spiralling through the air in a high arc, its owner stumbling backward to land with a firm thump on his backside in the dirt.

Still d’Artagnan advanced in his fury. In one swift motion he drew his dagger from his belt and unleashed it with all his might to bury it, hilt deep between Guy’s open legs, mere inches from the man’s groin. Then he stilled. Victory undeniably achieved, he turned as gracefully as his shaking body would allow and stalked away from the fight.

The crowd dispersed in twos and threes, most glaring in open hostility at the stunned man on the ground until only Athos remained. When he was sure everyone else was out of earshot he moved to stand by Lahogue’s feet and stared down on him icily. “d’Artagnan is one of the finest men this regiment has ever had – and will go on to possibly become _the_ finest. He has earned his place here many times over through his courage and loyalty. What is more, he is a good man and my friend.”

His words were spoken quietly, but each one dripped with contempt.

“While said in the heat of the fight, your words dishonoured your father and, by association, mine. If you wish to have any future here – let alone in this contest – you will apologise first to Captain Treville, then to the company as a whole and finally, and most importantly, to d’Artagnan.

With that, Athos bent to pluck d’Artagnan’s dagger from the ground and turned to find his former protégé.

 

******************************

 

Predictably Aramis and Porthos had beaten him to it. Athos saw them across the yard, seated and flanking d’Artagnan. It looked as though they were both speaking urgently to calm down their still-enraged Gascon friend. Athos approached but stood a little apart until he gained their attention.

“d’Artagnan. Are you well?” He paused for just a second before continuing. “You have my sincere apologies for Guy’s insults. His words were dishonourable and unworthy of a Musketeer and gentlemen.”

Quite unable to form a response d’Artagnan just stared at him. Unnerved by the lack of reaction Athos tried again. “Guy is my recruit and as such I am responsible for him. Know that I am very _disappointed_ in his conduct and have told him so.”

Still unable to speak d’Artagnan managed a curt nod before turning again to fix his eyes on the bench in front of him. Clearly unsure of what more to do Athos gently placed d’Artagnan’s dagger onto the table and walked away.

Aramis groaned inwardly at Athos’s formal way of offering solace. He knew how deeply affected Athos was becoming by the growing divide between him and d’Artagnan but still! Why couldn’t he see that the young man currently shaking like a day-old colt badly needed a hug and a warm word from his former team leader?

Wordlessly he signalled Porthos to follow after the older Musketeer and then turned his attention again on their younger. This time he wouldn’t get away without a thorough assessment of his injuries.

Calmly so not to spook him further, he gestured to his hand. “Come on. Let me look at that burn. I can’t believe this morning’s performance will have helped it any.”

Wordlessly d’Artagnan unclenched his hand and allowed the medic to unwrap the soiled linen. Aramis frowned at the inflamed palm and sighed. “As I thought, it’s infected slightly. You are a young fool for not allowing me to treat it earlier. In a moment I will collect my supplies, clean it, apply a salve and then re-wrap it.

“Where else are you in pain? Don’t bother denying it because I can see how you have been pretending not to limp all morning.”

“Ankle and hip, but mostly ankle,” d’Artagnan mumbled a reply, stilled now that the fight had left him and his blood cooled. “Twisted it yesterday. Not broken.”

“OK, here’s what’s going to happen.” Aramis issued his orders slowly and quietly as if to a child. “I’m going to get the things I need to treat _all_ your injuries, plus I’m going to get Porthos to organise food and water for you. My guess is that you haven’t eaten today – am I right?” d’Artagnan just shrugged in answer.

Unperturbed, Aramis continued. “While I’m gone, you are going to remove your boot ready for me to examine your ankle. Under no circumstances are you to move from this table before I return. Do I have your word?”

Doubtful he had the energy to stand anyway, d’Artagnan nodded his agreement and watched Aramis move off towards his rooms.

The next thing d’Artagnan knew Porthos’ big hand landed on his shoulder and a tray of bread, meat cuts and fruit together with a pitcher of water landed on the bench in front of him. “Eat up lad. I’ve no idea how you’re still survivin’ with so little meat on your bones. I know you’ve always been lean but I reckon now I could carry you around like a babe.”

D’Artagnan scowled back at him, uncomfortable with the comparison to a weak child.

Porthos chuckled. “None of that brat. Just eat.”

Obediently, d’Artagnan started to pick at the food. In truth he was starving but at the same time he could already feel his rebellious stomach pitch and roll and he was unsure how much of the meal would stay down. He concentrated instead on taking steady sips of the blissfully cool water.

Aramis returned with a bulging satchel although he sat patiently and waited until d’Artagnan pushed the tray away signalling he could eat no more. “Hmm well, better than nothing I suppose but you will finish the rest later. Now give me your foot.”

After minutes of prodding and twisting the bruised and swollen ankle, the medic sighed and looked regretfully at the youngster. “The good news is that you are right - it isn’t broken. If it was, you wouldn’t have been standing this morning never mind leaping around like a deranged street fighter.

“However I think there is quite a lot of damage to the tissue around the bone. I think you should see the Garrison doctor and I don’t think you should take part in this afternoon’s endurance run.”

d’Artagnan’s head shot up at his words and his eyes became blown with panic. “No Aramis you are wrong!” He abruptly withdrew his foot from the medic’s grasp. “It’s fine and I will run. As you say it is not broken. If I stop now everything else will have been for naught and that will not happen.”

“d’Artagnan, listen. We’re talking about a long-distance race while carrying a weighted pack…”

“I know Aramis but please. I soaked it last night in cold water and it helped, it really did. I’ll do it now until the run starts.”  His words were now tumbling rapidly from his mouth. “I can do this, I have to do this. After the pistols yesterday I thought I was out of it but I got back by winning the hand-to-hand and now the swords. I’m not giving in now.

He stopped babbling and turned the full force of his mournful brown eyes on his friend. “Please Aramis. If you’ve ever felt any love for me at all, don’t report me to the doctor. Afterwards, you can lock me in the infirmary for days if you wish, but don’t interfere today.”

Throwing up his hands in surrender Aramis knew he was beaten. “Mother Mary save us all from stubborn Gascons,” he uttered. “I’m getting a bucket of cold water and you are going to keep your ankle in it for at least the next hour. Hear me?”

Knowing when to quit while he was ahead, d’Artagnan nodded vigorously and turned the best smile he could on his friend hoping to let him know how grateful he was for his decision.

Still muttering curses under his breath Aramis stomped away towards the well.

 

***************************************

 

It had taken Guy Lahogue a good few minutes to regain his composure after his humiliating swords defeat and the equally humiliating dressing down from Athos. Skulking out of sight behind the armoury, he silently berated himself for losing his control so spectacularly.  What had he been thinking giving voice to all his secret opinions about the Gascon brat like that? Now Athos, Treville and at least half the Garrison despised him. He had some serious grovelling to do if he was to rescue this situation.

He’d start with Treville.

For the next half an hour, Guy lied to his Captain as though his life depended on it – certainly his future did. He apologised for his outburst again and again with sincere words and humble tones. He begged and pleaded to be allowed to continue both as a Musketeer recruit and in the contest, stating that d’Artagnan as the wronged party, deserved the right to regain his honour by seeing the contest through to its conclusion, regardless of the outcome.

In the end it was this argument that swayed the Captain. After all, deciding the matter through an endurance run was preferable to pistols at dawn. Although he would quite happily have Guy Lahogue disappear right now, he had no wish to see d’Artagnan locked up for illegal duelling.

He held up his hand to halt the pleading. “I will agree on two conditions – firstly you apologise to each soldier within this courtyard because when you insulted d’Artagnan you insulted every one of his brothers. Secondly, you will seek out d’Artagnan and apologise to him. Only, and I mean only, if he agrees, will I allow you to stay in the contest.

“In light of this morning’s events and the heat of the day, the run will be postponed until later this afternoon. I suggest you eat and get some rest in preparation.”

Thinking this to be the best outcome he could hope for, Lahogue readily agreed.

Dutifully he took himself around every small group of Musketeers as they lounged around their mid-day meals. Hat in hand he apologised to each for his insults, citing his own weakness and frustration as his only excuse. Some, notably d’Artagnan’s friends among the younger soldiers, resolutely turned their backs on him but most of the older, more seasoned men nodded their acknowledgement before returning to their food and wine. d’Artagnan had had his satisfaction when he put the idiot on his backside and as far as they were concerned the matter was closed.

Finally, Lahogue gritted his teeth and went in search of his Gascon rival. This apology would hurt the most but he had no choice if he wanted to see the back of the irritating little prick once and for all.

 

***************************************

 

 

He came upon D’Artagnan as Aramis and Porthos had left him, slouched forward on the wooden bench, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Both feet bare, his left was almost comically planted in a bucket of water while his socks and boots rested neatly to the side of the bench.  With more than three hours before he needed to be back in action, Aramis had pressed a very mild pain relieving draught on him. That, together with nights of missed sleep, an exhausting morning and a finally full belly, had tumbled the youngster into a deep sleep.

Guy studied his rival for a few minutes. He couldn’t help but wonder when d’Artagnan downfall had become such a personal matter. When Guy had arrived with the Musketeers he’d brushed off the farmer’s son as irrelevant. He’d displaced him easily at Athos’s side and had given no thought to the other recruit’s qualities or future.

It had turned out that d’Artagnan’s hold on his former team was not easily shaken off. It seemed the other two had convinced Athos to take him back and dump Guy onto someone else. Nothing he’d tried so far to prove he was the better recruit had worked and now they were about to enter the final event of the contest almost neck-and-neck at the top of the leaderboard. Whichever of them finished the endurance run first would take the title, and that made him very, very nervous.

Guy knew he was no runner. He was older and heavier than d’Artagnan plus he’d seen the boy in action on training runs before – he was good.  But would his injuries level the playing field enough? Could he afford to leave this one to chance?

There was no doubt Guy had made a mistake in underestimating the other man’s sheer stubbornness so far. Who would have thought the youngster would be so determined to continue with injuries that would have felled anyone else? Why couldn’t he just quit and save them both so much trouble?

As he thought, Guy’s eyes landed on d’Artagnan’s boots. An idea slowly formed itself in his mind. It was risky but it should work. Very carefully he reached forward and snagged the boots together with an empty wine bottle lying abandoned from earlier. Making sure not to disturb the sleeping recruit, he backed away slowly until he was out of sight.

 

***************************************

 

With hindsight, Aramis thought the pain draught was probably a mistake. He hadn’t known what a deep effect it would have on their exhausted young friend until ten minutes before the race was to begin and he and Porthos were still trying to raise a groggy Gascon from his bench, long limbs uncoordinated and eyes slightly unfocused.

“How much did you give ‘im Aramis?” Porthos asked.  “He’s not going to run in a straight line like this!”

“Not enough to cause this I didn’t think! d’Artagnan? d’Artagnan, it’s time to wake up now. There you are. Are you back with us my friend?”

d’Artagnan blinked and stretched his shoulders. Awareness was coming back to him and in a rush he realised he needed to get himself ready to run. Already, he could hear Treville calling for the contestants to take their places on the start line.

He took a couple steps before his brain registered there was something missing. “Boots!” he yelled, spinning quickly back towards his sleeping place. Struggling to keep his balance, he shrugged on his socks before casting around in vain for his suddenly missing footwear.

“Boots. Boots. They were here. Who’s got my boots?” Concern turned to panic as the three men searched until Porthos gave a triumphant yelp, spotting the boots tucked under the far side of the bench. Quickly he thrust them into d’Artagnan’s arms and bundled the recruit towards the waiting Captain. “Go on, you can put them on over there. Move it before Treville disqualifies you.”

Part of d’Artagnan’s muddled mind was trying to figure out why his boots were not where he had left them – he was sure it was important but before he got any further he was swept up in the crowd of Musketeers who had gathered for the start of the endurance run.

Hands seemed to be everywhere as he was jostled into position on the starting line. It took a moment before he realised Treville had started to address the group.

“…final event of this year’s recruits’ contest.  After the shooting, hand-to-hand and swords, Lahogue and d’Artagnan are the leading two recruits and so they will compete against each other in an endurance race around the city’s outer wall, each carrying a loaded saddlebag. The first back to the Garrison will be the winner and awarded the overall title.”

He then lowered his voice to speak just to the competitors. “Before we start, d’Artagnan I need to know that you have accepted Lahogue’s apology for his outburst during the swords match. It is the only condition I have placed on his continuing in the contest.”

Lahogue jumped in before D’Artagnan could reply. “Captain, I am at fault here. I went to find d’Artagnan to make amends but he was sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb his rest.” Turning to the young Gascon, the older man stuck out his hand with a sincere smile that almost met his eyes. “My manners quite deserted me in the face of your extraordinary fighting technique. I have never come across anything quite like it in the fencing salles of my family home.  I am deeply sorry for my words, spoken in temper and hope you will accept my humble apology.”

d’Artagnan licked his lips nervously. Truthfully he had no desire to accept the apology, especially since he was sure Lahogue didn’t mean a word of it, but he realised that here, surrounded by the entire regiment, there was no honourable way to refuse.

Wordlessly he took the other man’s hand, gave it the briefest of shakes, and turned away.

There was an audible sigh as though every watching man had been holding his breath.

Then d’Artagnan felt a heaviness settle across his right shoulder as the saddle bag filled with five pieces of lead was strapped on. It was awkward but nothing he hadn’t handled before in training. Then a nudge and Porthos whispered in his ear. “Boots lad. Put on your boots.”

d’Artagnan felt himself grow red in the face as he realised he’d been standing in his stocking feet still clutching his boots to his chest. He ignored the snickers around and bent to put them on.

Treville was anxious to get the race under way. “Right. You both know the route. There is a man positioned at the furthest point and you must collect a flag from him before heading back. The first of you to return with your flag is the winner.  On the count of three….one, two, three, GO!”

“Captain, one moment. My boots…”

“d’Artagnan, not now…GO!” Multiple hands seemed to be on his back, propelling him forward after Lahogue who had sprinted ahead and was already out of the Garrison gates.

With his very first step, D’Artagnan knew there was something wrong with his footwear.  He registered his ankle felt considerably better thanks to the cold water he’d soaked it in for a length of time – no, that wasn’t it. It was as if there were a number of small stones in each boot. They weren’t painful, just irritating but there was nothing he could do, at least until he was out of sight of the Garrison. He resolved to get himself ahead of Lahogue before stopping to check it out.

As he left the gates, D’Artagnan had to dodge to avoid a Palace messenger arriving at full speed. The boy spotted Treville and raced over to him handing over his message before standing with his hands on his knees panting heavily.

The urgency was not lost on the Captain who scanned the message and swore under his breath.  Wasting no time he turned to Athos at his elbow. “There’s been an incident the Palace.  Men have broken into the gardens and are closing in on the East Wing. We are needed in strength.” Raising his voice he yelled: “Men arm up and prepare to ride. We leave for the Palace in 10 minutes.”

Suddenly the Garrison erupted in movement and noise as every Musketeer became a professional soldier and hurried to make ready. None of them knew what they would find at the Louvre Palace.

“Captain, what about d’Artagnan and Lahogue? Shall I send runners to retrieve them?” Athos asked tensely.

“No time.” Treville cast around his men. “Mathieu. I’m leaving you in charge here. Just note the time the two of them get back. I’ll deal with the rest when I return.  It looks like a regiment contest may be the least of our concerns today.”

With that, the Musketeers mounted up and, riding two abreast, poured out of the Garrison to meet whatever danger awaited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a very enjoyable 20 minutes researching 17th Century insults for Guy's outburst - isn't Google wonderful? It turns out that among the very worst things you could call someone was 'cuckoo' and 'pretender', both of which called into question a man's honour and right to exist in proper society. I had great fun mixing these up with a few more modern slurs- I hope no one found it offensive.


	6. Chapter Six

d’Artagnan’s feet were on fire.  He’d run for around three miles before he’d been forced to sit on the street side and pull off his boots. He hadn’t wanted to spare the time but the niggling pain had grown into a steady burn until he knew he had no choice.

What he found shocked him beyond belief. Both his socks were stained with small amounts of fresh blood. Shaking out first one boot and then the other a small number of tiny pebbles fell into his open hand. He was about to throw them away in disgust when the weak sunlight caught one of them, making it sparkle slightly. He frowned and looked closer. With a gasp he realised what they were – not pebbles but glass. Tiny shards of broken glass.

A cold fear gripped him as he realised what this meant. First of all someone had deliberately put broken glass into his boots. This made the sabotage of his pistol look like child’s play. Secondly, he was in greater trouble than he’d first thought.

He ripped off his socks and gave a small cry at what he found. Random deep cuts littered the soles of both feet from where razor-sharp glass splinters had worked their way through his socks. Desperately he brushed the cuts, feeling them sting but in the fading afternoon light it was impossible to tell if any glass remained behind.

He replaced both boots and stood gingerly. He had no choice but to finish the race although he could already tell it would be agony. Grimacing he adjusted the load on his shoulder and set off again at a limping run.

 

****************************************

 

The emergency at the Palace turned out to be more of a storm in a teacup. Four men, seriously under the influence of too much wine and for reasons unknown, had attempted to gain entry through the gardens.  Quickly realising the folly of their actions they had gone to ground in the hedges under the West windows from where they fired badly aimed pistols at Treville’s Musketeers pinned down at the garden edge.

Through more luck than judgement, the four had chosen a perfect defensive position. The Musketeers couldn’t see through the hedges clearly to assess the size of the threat and every time Treville sent one of them to get closer, another pistol shot rang out, forcing the Musketeers back under cover.

To make matters worse, the drunken invaders were screaming about bombs and threatening to blow up half the Louvre if any of the solders came closer. Treville suspected this was an empty threat but couldn’t take the risk.

After a couple of hours of this stalemate, Athos, Aramis and Porthos crept towards their commander. “I think it’s time to end this Captain,” Athos drawled.

“With pleasure. What do you have in mind?”

Athos explained his plan with his usual precision. Treville nodded his assent and his three best soldiers crept away towards the Palace building.

What Athos had in mind worked perfectly. He’d taken note of which windows overlooked the invaders’ position and, together with Athos and Porthos had crept into those rooms, effectively sneaking up from above and behind. So distracted were they by Treville’s force, the unfortunate four didn’t see the danger until it was upon them as the Inseparables leapt on top of them from the window behind – Aramis taking one with a pistol butt to the back of the head just as Athos and Porthos flattened the other three.

The rest of the Musketeers poured forward to quickly neutralise the danger and before they knew it, four groggy prisoners were on their way to the Bastille.

The King was near hysterical by the attempted break in, despite Treville’s assurance that the threat had been amateurish and easily dealt with. His majesty insisted his Musketeers remain in force at the Palace, patrolling both inside and out until his nerves calmed.

Athos sighed. This was going to be a long night.

 

****************************************

 

Afternoon had long faded into evening by the time d’Artagnan limped back to the Garrison. Both feet were agony and he could feel his socks squelching on what could only be blood in his boots.  His damaged ankle was screaming with every step and his malnourished body had pleaded with his mind to quit miles ago. Pride had kept him putting one foot in front of the other although he knew there was little chance he’d beaten Guy Lahogue.

His worst fear was realised when he saw Mathieu standing in the centre of the deserted courtyard, talking to a very relaxed-looking Lahogue. 

d’Artagnan shrugged his weighted saddlebag to the ground and despaired. He’d lost and his dreams of becoming a Musketeer were shattered. No commission, no money, no brothers, no hope. It was over.

He raised his head to see a smug Lahogue and a furious Mathieu approaching. “You’re pathetic!” spat out his hated team leader. “Call yourself a Musketeer recruit? That was the worst performance I’ve ever seen! And to think I actually thought I might win that silver medal with you!”

d’Artagnan tried in vain to rally the energy to defend himself. “Glass,” he muttered. “Glass in my boots. Sabotaged.”

“Pathetic excuses. You would try something like this.” Mathieu snarled out. “So where is this mysterious glass? Where’s your proof, recruit scum?”

d’Artagnan glared hopelessly at Lahogue but Mathieu was right. He’d thrown the glass pieces away on the streets of Paris without thinking. There was no proof.  Suddenly registering the Garrison was almost empty, d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted to the familiar bench, now deserted. He was overcome with the realisation that no one had stayed to see him finish, not even Aramis whom he’d expected to see waiting to cluck over his injuries.

When he saw the direction of his gaze, Mathieu had no problem with twisting the knife further into his exhausted recruit. He saw no reason to explain how Athos, Porthos and Aramis were still doing their duty at the Palace.  “They’re not here farm boy. You didn’t really expect proper Musketeers to waste time waiting for you, did you?

“Get out of my sight you useless child. It’s about time you realised there’s no place for you here. First thing tomorrow I’ll be seeing the Captain to demand he removes you from my team. Then where will you be? Dismissed from two teams in as many months. Who will have you then, eh?

“Do us all a favour - get yourself back to Gascony and grow turnips. You’re seriously out of your depth here.”

With that, Mathieu spat on the ground at d’Artagnan’s feet before striding away, a grinning Lahogue in tow.

d’Artagnan stood alone in the centre of the courtyard allowing the sneers to wash over him. Out of options, he trudged away.

 

****************************************

 

“I want to sleep for a week – wake me earlier and I’ll kill you,” Porthos grumbled as he, Athos and Aramis trudged into the Garrison in the small hours of the morning.

Even though he knew it was ridiculous Athos couldn’t help a glance around, just on the off-chance their young friend was still there. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had waited up for the others to finish duty.

Aramis read his mind. “He’ll have been abed for hours my friend. I’m sure he’ll be here first thing in the morning to tell us all about it.”

Athos grunted. Again Aramis interpreted. “I know, I would feel better checking on him as well but he’s had a rough day – as have we. And anyway he’s hardly going to thank us for rousing him from his bed at this hour just to ask how he’s feeling. Not to mention the violent response such action would provoke from the wonderful Madame Bonacieux.” As he spoke, Aramis’ hand went absently to his cheek as though he could feel one of Constance’s slaps right then.

“I know. Get yourselves to bed, both of you. I’m going to sit and take a drink before I retire. I have no doubt Treville will want us at the Palace again after breakfast.” With that the three parted, Porthos and Aramis to their rooms and Athos to their regular table, snagging a bottle of red from the store on his way. If he couldn’t go to their Gascon, he would simply wait until their Gascon came to him.

 

****************************************

 

Dawn found Athos passed out where he sat. He roused as the courtyard started to fill. Slowly he realised several of his fellow Musketeers were coming over to slap him on the back and yell messages of congratulations. He squinted in the morning light, not exactly hungover but definitely blurry from insufficient sleep.

Suddenly, there was Guy Lahogue at his elbow, bouncing and looking entirely too self-satisfied. After a minute of waiting, the younger man broke the silence. “Will you not congratulate me?”

“Why would I?” Athos grumbled.

“I won! I finished the race ahead of d’Artagnan and won the contest. I earned you the silver medal. We should both be proud.”

“My congratulations then,” Athos said dryly. His brain jolted awake as the other man’s words penetrated the fog. “What happened?”

“I covered the route faster than I had before. It wasn’t difficult-”

“No. what happened to d’Artagnan?”

Guy ground down his annoyance. This was his moment, and still Athos was harping on about his brat. He shrugged. “Nothing happened. He just wasn’t as fast as me.”

“Was he hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” Guy lied. “Is it so hard, Athos, to believe I beat him?”

“Beat who?” Porthos approached the table, arm slung companionably across Aramis’ shoulders.

“d’Artagnan. I beat d’Artagnan in the race yesterday. I won the contest.”

The pair stood wordlessly as they absorbed this piece of news.  “I don’t like this,” Porthos was the first to speak.

“Me neither,” Athos agreed. “And I don’t believe d’Artagnan has arrived at the Garrison this morning.”

“I checked him just before the race started,” Aramis mused. “Even with his injured ankle he still should have been able to win.”

“Oh thanks a lot Aramis.  I’m knocked out by the faith you’ve all got in me!” Guy was ignored as the Inseparables continued their conversation in silence.

“Right then. That’s decided. I’ll go to the Bonacieux and meet you back here.” But Athos’ plan was interrupted as Treville emerged from his office to address his regiment.

“Good morning gentlemen. Firstly, thank you for your excellent work at the Palace yesterday and last night. The good news is that we secured the area and the King and Queen are safe. The bad news is that the attempted break-in has put the King on high alert and the Cardinal has ordered double patrols for the rest of the week. All teams will prepare to leave for the Palace immediately after Muster.” Groans from all quarters met this announcement.

“On a lighter note, you may already have heard that Lahogue was successful in yesterday’s endurance race and is therefore our new recruit champion. My congratulations go to Guy and to his team leader Athos. Commiserations to d’Artagnan who finished second.”

Athos stiffened as a few titters rang around the group. Someone near the back snorted out “What happened to your puppy Mathieu? Did he trip over his own ears?” Again laughter rang around and even a few barks could be heard. Mathieu himself grinned and even gave an answering ‘woof’.

“Enough,” roared Treville, glaring menacingly until every one of his men settled down.  “That’s better. Athos, please have your team ready to accompany Guy to Court later this afternoon. He will be presented to the King before the end of session. That’s all, you have your orders.”

With that muster broke up but not before Treville leaned over the balcony and crooked his finger at his three best. “Stay here,” Athos ground out to Guy as he, Aramis and Porthos made their way up the stairs to the captain’s office.

Guy huffed but then turned to another Musketeer and gave a derisive little bark. Athos stilled momentarily on the steps but didn’t utter a word.

“What happened Captain? Where is he?” the questions started almost before the three entered the office.

Treville sighed wearily. “I was hoping you could tell me. All I know is what Mathieu reported – Lahogue made it back first with his flag, beating d’Artagnan by a fair amount of time. He said no more.”

“Captain, permission to go to d’Artagnan’s lodgings to check on him?” Athos asked respectfully.

Treville shook his head. “I’m sorry Athos but I can’t allow it,” he held up his hand to the immediate protests. “All three of you are needed at the Palace straightaway, and probably for most of the day. Richelieu is already having a field day with this – he seems to be blaming us for yesterday, for not stopping those four invaders earlier. It would only play into his hands if my second-in-command and his team are not on the ground today.

“d’Artagnan will have to look after himself. You can check on him later. Dismissed.”

Aramis and Porthos looked like they were about to argue but a growl from their leader had them heading out of the door. With long faces and dragging feet the three headed to the stables and their duty.

 

****************************************

 

The subject of their concern spent a miserable day in his room. Despite his assurances that he was ‘fine’ Constance had taken one look at him that morning and bustled to her kitchen to make him the heartiest meal she could, ignoring his protests that her husband wouldn’t like it.

To her great regret she was due to leave Paris that morning to visit an old friend outside the city. Her friend’s husband had recently succumbed to consumption and Constance had promised to spend time with her in her grief. Thankfully, Bonacieux would be out of Paris himself for the remainder of the week.

Persuading Constance to stick to her plans D’Artagnan waved her off with a fake smile and a chaste kiss on the hand before staggering back to his room and locking the door behind him. Within an hour Constance’s lovingly prepared breakfast had made a reappearance into his chamber pot, leaving him sweating, cramping and feeling totally wretched.

Most of all he knew he should be at the Garrison ready to do his duty but Mathieu’s cruel words from the night before would not leave him alone.

_“Recruit scum.”_

_“Farm boy.”_

_“Dismissed from two teams in as many months.”_

_“You’re pathetic!”_

_“Recruit scum.”_

_“Seriously out of your depth.”_

_“Who will have you?"_

_“Useless child”_

_“Recruit scum”_

_“Proper Musketeers. Proper Musketeers. Proper Musketeers.”_

_“Recruit scum”_

On and on the words tumbled around his head until he could no longer make out who was speaking.

 _“Worst performance I’ve ever seen”,_ that was Mathieu, no that was Athos speaking, his grey eyes disdainful.  Aramis stood behind him. “ _There’s no place for you here,_ ” the marksman spat. _“Seriously out of your depth_ ” Porthos laughed at him. Four men walked towards him, Athos, Aramis and Porthos with their arms around the shoulders of Guy Lahogue. They chanted as they got closer and closer _“Proper Musketeers. Proper Musketeers. Proper Musketeers.”_

d’Artagnan jerked awake from a doze he hadn’t realised he’d fallen into.  He was sweating but shivering. His hand burned worse than ever and now it was joined by a steady throbbing from the soles of both feet. There was definitely glass shards still embedded in his skin but he had nothing in his room to pull them out with. Aramis would have been able to help but Aramis hadn’t waited, and d’Artagnan didn’t know where he’d gone.

He recognised the low grade fever and prayed that washing himself in cold water from the Bonacieux well would be enough to halt its progression.

In his few lucid moments he thought about his future and what he should do. While in Paris he’d often been called stubborn but he never thought the word really suited him. Stubborn sounded like someone who refused to acknowledge reality, someone so single minded they would ignore all the facts to reach a goal. d’Artagnan hadn’t been raised that way.

No one born in rural France during these times could survive with that mindset. Life was too hard, too cruel. People adapted or they died – it was simple. “Bend, don’t break”, his father had said, many times. 

 _“Get yourself back to Gascony and grow turnips”_ , Mathieu, _or was it Porthos?_ had said. Turnips. Suddenly in d’Artagnan’s fevered dreams he was eleven years old again, endlessly practicing his sword work against the upright beam of Alexander d’Artagnan’s farm. His father approached, seemingly undisturbed by the gunshot wound that dribbled blood down the front of his shirt.

“I will be Musketeer father,” he heard himself say.

“It is a fine dream, son,” Alexander replied. “But always remember the trouble with dreams. It is a foolish man who starves while dreaming of venison rather than eating the turnips before him. Promise me, however much you dream, you will always remember how to make a good turnip stew.” His father laughed at his own joke and turned away, blood still falling in drips at his feet.

d’Artagnan came awake again and gasped aloud as a barrelful of grief and homesickness threatened to overwhelm him. That was his answer. It was time to bend – to admit there was nothing in Paris for him, at least not at the moment. Time to go home, check on the farm, regroup and then – if reality allowed – come back and try again.

Tomorrow. He’d set off back to Gascony tomorrow.

 

************************************

 

It was a frustratingly long day at the Palace. Predictably Cardinal Richelieu had refused to let up, whispering to the King to have his Musketeers patrol the same small areas of the Palace buildings and grounds in endless loops.

And then, to stand before Louis and accept congratulations on Guy’s victory in the recruits’ contest was almost unbearable. Guy himself had preened under the King’s attention like a prized pig at a country fair. Athos stepped forward to accept his silver medal and never felt like more like a fraud.

Finally back at the Garrison they’d been disappointed but not surprised to learn that d’Artagnan hadn’t been seen all day. “He’s just licking his wounds,” Treville said. “Leave him be. He’ll be back when he’s ready.

“Get some rest, you’re needed at the Palace again first thing tomorrow, although the King seems calmer so I hope to be able to release you at lunchtime. If d’Artagnan hasn’t shown up you can look for him then.

“One thing you might want to know,” Treville added as they stood before him in his office. “Mathieu has been to see me to ask for d’Artagnan to be removed from his team. Doesn’t believe the lad to be Musketeer material.”

“Good,” Athos replied. Treville’s head shot up, mistaking his lieutenant’s meaning. “It makes things simpler,” Aramis explained quickly. “We want him back, if he’ll have us.”

“It seems Guy is not a good fit for our team. This was my mistake. I wanted the perfect recruit. I didn’t realise I already had him.” Athos stared straight ahead during this uncomfortable admission.

Treville studied his three best men closely taking in their earnest expressions and tense body language. “Agreed. If, when, D’Artagnan returns he will be transferred back to your team. I’ll find a spot for Guy elsewhere – any number of teams will have him, especially now he’s champion recruit.”

“Mathieu perhaps?” Porthos’ voice dripped sarcasm. “They seem well suited to each other if you ask me.”

Ignoring him, the Captain narrowed his eyes and stared at Athos again. “You know, despite this set back, I have no doubt whatsoever that d’Artagnan will gain his commission and soon. Mentoring our youngest-ever Musketeer is both a responsibility and a privilege. Make sure you don’t mess it up again.

“And Athos? When you find him, make sure you feed him. Lad looks like he’s spent a month in the Bastille.”

There was no response to this. Athos threw his captain a rare salute to signal the message had been received and understood. The Inseparables clumped down the stairs to the courtyard, resolutely ignoring the wood carver who was putting the finishing touches to the Champion Recruit roll of honour that hung on the wall below the steps.

 _1630 – Guy Lahogue_.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - the last chapter of my story. It's an extra long one partly because I couldn't see a logical place to break off and partly because I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer to see how things turn out.  
> Those of you who have left comments and kudos, I can't thank you enough. I said at the beginning that I was nervous about posting and some of your lovely comments have literally made me blush to read them.  
> I'm half-way through a new story and although it's not coming together as easily as this one, I hope it will also please you.  
> Byeee for now.

__Restless, feverish dreams refused to release d’Artagnan through the remainder of that day and night. He pushed himself painfully from his bed as daylight crept through his shutters. Today he would leave Paris and set out for home. Now the decision was made he felt lighter than he had for weeks. There were just the practicalities to decide.

More than anything else he refused to leave the city while he owed money to Jacques Bonacieux. To do so would confirm every nasty, petty thing the man had said about him, and much worse, might go badly for Constance. Apart from all else paying off his debts was the honest thing to do.

His father’s voice rang loud in his ears. “Better to eat a sackful of turnips you’ve grown yourself than a single mouthful of stolen venison.”

“Stop it father,” he chided out loud. “I get it. No more turnip stories!” He caught himself and collapsed on the bed, giggling helplessly. Perhaps, he thought as he sobered, this mild fever was worse than he’d thought.

Once more ignoring the pounding in his head and the shivers running through his body, d’Artagnan considered his options. He needed enough coin to settle with Bonacieux, gain passage on a wagon headed south and feed himself for the first part of the journey. Once outside Paris he should be able to pick up some work from farms along the way – enough to earn the odd meal or night in a barn. It would slow his progress but he had time.

In reality he only had two things left to sell – Alexander’s sword and his horse. The first was unthinkable so, with deep regret, he decided on selling his horse. She was a good, young animal bred himself from solid stock. She should fetch enough even from the notoriously tough horse traders here in the city.

Gathering his few bits of clothing into the canvas bag he’d brought from Gascony d’Artagnan closed the door to his room without looking back and set out to retrieve his horse from the Garrison stables.

Despite all his amateur medical efforts each step was agony and it was a shivering, sweating young man who arrived at the Garrison gates. Relieved to find the courtyard once again deserted he limped to his mare’s stall.

“Hey girl,” he said softly, loving the way she nuzzled in his ear in return. “Come on. It’s time for us to part. New adventures are waiting for you with a new master.” As quickly as his leaden limbs would allow, he readied the animal all the time giving her affectionate pats and whispering sweet nothings into her ears.

Unbeknown to d’Artagnan, three stalls down Guy Lahogue shoveled horse shit with all his wounded pride on display. Yesterday he’d been on top of the world – receiving congratulations from the King himself. Today he was on stable duty. A somewhat apologetic Treville explaining it was just temporary until the fuss at the Palace died down and he could find the recruit a new team to work with.

The Captain had been diplomatic – explaining that sometimes teams didn’t work out. It was no reflection on him but it had been decided he would fare better with another leader. Guy had known this was coming. Treville hadn’t mentioned d’Artagnan but Guy knew he was being moved to make way for the Gascon’s return to Athos’ team.  Despite everything, despite being victorious in the contest and proving to everyone he was the better recruit, the bastard farm boy had still won. His humiliation was complete and Guy Lahogue was not used to being humiliated.

Continuing to fume he walked out of the stall and almost straight into the subject of his hatred, leading his horse away.  The two recruits stood and stared open-mouthed, each shocked to see the other there.

A thousand emotions raced through d’Artagnan’s mind but in the end all he could do was turn to walk away. Seeing Guy changed nothing, Gascony still beckoned. Guy however took d’Artagnan’s silence as dismissal and that was something he wasn’t going to allow.

“Hold it farm boy. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Where I go is none of your affair.” He calmly examined the other man for a moment and then spoke again. “You know, you keep calling me farm boy as though it’s an insult, something I should be ashamed of. You’re wrong. I’d rather be an honest farm boy for the rest of my life than a crooked Musketeer for a single hour.”

“Who are you calling-”

“You know it’s true. You won that contest by cheating. First by tampering with my pistol and then by putting glass in my boots. When you couldn’t cheat – hand-to-hand and swords – I beat you fair and square.”

Guy looked dangerous now his face taking on the look of a cornered animal. “As Mathieu said the other night – you’ve no proof. Go to Treville with this and he’ll just think you’re a bad loser.”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ve proof, maybe I haven’t. Maybe he’ll believe me, maybe he won’t. I’ve been here a while longer than you, I’ve been on missions and proved my loyalty. I wouldn’t be so sure of who Treville would believe if I were you.” 

d’Artagnan had no intention of taking his accusations to Treville and he really should have kept his mouth closed. But he was tired of being a victim, of allowing this man to think he’d won and that d’Artagnan was on his knees. Perhaps what he’d said would only plant a tiny seed of doubt in Lahogue’s mind, but for d’Artagnan, feverish, hurting and bent but not broken, it was enough.

With this small victory won he led his horse into the courtyard, mounted up and rode out of the Musketeer’s Garrison.

Guy Lahogue watched him go with a frown. Things were going from bad to worse and, if d’Artagnan really was going to talk to Treville later something must be done. He was no longer defending his place at Athos’ side, suddenly his whole future in the Musketeers was at stake. Who knew what Treville would do if he believed the farm boy’s story. Perhaps one more throw of the dice would do it.

 

****************************************

 

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for d’Artagnan to find a buyer for his horse. His shredded emotions were not looking for long goodbyes and as soon as he was sure the trader was not a cruel man he agreed a price. With a final kiss on the nose he turned his back on another friend.

In fact he couldn’t be sure if the man had given him a good deal or not. The trader’s words were jumbling together in his head and the coins pressed into his hand were hot and too many for his blurry eyes to count. Too many or too few? He thought the trader made a joke about him taking the coin and seeking a doctor, but he wasn’t sure. Either way the man seemed eager for him to be on his way and crossed himself as d’Artagnan left his yard.

All that was left was for d’Artagnan to go back to his landlord’s house and leave the money owed on the dresser. Then he could finally be on his way. He trudged the streets without looking where he was going and it was with surprise that he raised his head to find himself back outside the Garrison. Why was that? He certainly hadn’t intended to come this way.

Unbidden his mixed-up thoughts turned to Captain Treville and he realised he owed the man an honest goodbye. He been nothing but fair to d’Artagnan throughout his months as a Musketeer-in-training and it seemed wrong somehow to depart for Gascony without as much as shaking him by the hand.

So he made his way unsteadily to the Captain’s office door where he paused for a moment before knocking.

He thought he heard “Come” but couldn’t be sure so he stood there until “I said COME!” rattled the door in its frame. No mistaking that, then. Still unsure – he couldn’t really remember why he was standing outside the Captain’s office – he pushed at the door and stepped hesitantly over the threshold.

Treville glanced up from the papers he was studying, just enough to register who was in his doorway.

“d’Artagnan! Good to see you, we were all starting to wor-”

“Goodbye,” d’Artagnan stuck out his hand, although he was any number of paces away from the man’s desk. “Goodbye,” he repeated, louder this time in an effort to be heard above the buzzing in his ears that simply wouldn’t go away.

That made Treville look up properly and he instantly took in the sight before him. A clearly unsteady d’Artagnan, sweat on his forehead, eyes unfocused and dark-ringed, badly fastened doublet hanging from a too-skinny frame.

“Lad? You look worse than terrible. Sit before you fall over.”

“No. Goodbye. Gascony now.” Once again d’Artagnan stuck out his hand, this time staggering forward a step as his momentum pulled on his wavering balance.

“Woah, no you don’t. I don’t know what’s going on with you but you are not going anywhere.” Treville hurriedly crossed the steps between them but somehow d’Artagnan failed to track his movement, flinching back with a startled yelp as his Captain suddenly loomed in his face. Treville shot out a hand and caught the young man on the back of his neck, hissing himself as he felt the heat pouring from his body.

d’Artagnan’s face creased as he studied the other man’s eyes then with a soft sigh he whispered a heartwrenching “Father?”

Treville sighed and softened his voice to a murmur. “No lad, I’m sorry. Come on, I want you to rest in my bed while I get a doctor to look you over.”

Without waiting for a response, Treville wrapped his arm around d’Artagnan’s hips and started steering him toward his private quarters at the back of his office. “Dear Lord, d’Artagnan, when did you last eat a proper meal?” He tried to keep his tone light but there was genuine shock as he felt the boy’s pelvic bones jutting out of his flesh.

“Can’t. No money.” Fever was driving away all d’Artagnan’s carefully constructed filters, allowing him to admit everything he’d tried so hard to hide. Treville couldn’t decide if it made him sound more like a grown man after three bottles of brandy or simply a lost four-year-old. Nevertheless, a coldness settled on his shoulders as the young man blurted out more of the story of his enforced poverty.

“So you’re saying,” he tried to understand as he sat the youngster onto his bed, “that you’ve not been eating for weeks because there’s been no income from your farm? Heaven’s above, lad, why didn’t you tell someone? Why on earth didn’t you tell Athos?”

d’Artagnan fixed him with as clear a look as he could manage and shook his head, groaning as the room swam around him. “Can’t. Has Guy now.”

Treville hissed again as he removed the outer layer of d’Artagnan’s clothing, taking care not to jostle the still-bandaged hand. Aramis had told him the burn was mending so it seemed unlikely that was the cause of the infection raging here.

He bent next to tug at his boots but stilled immediately as the action caused the youngster to moan with more pain. With care he prised them off and immediately put his hand to his mouth at the smell of blood and infection that hit his nose. “Dear Lord,” he repeated, “What have you done to yourself?”

But d’Artagnan was too far gone to respond, the fever having pulled him down into the waiting darkness.

Treville wasted no time shouting the Garrison errand boy. “Go get a doctor, quickly. Tell him it’s an emergency. And get someone to bring cold water up here straightaway.” The boy sprinted to do as he was bid.

The doctor arrived to find a worried-looking Treville softly combing his fingers through the dark hair of a lanky young man passed out on his bed.

“Treville, what’s this?” he wasted no time getting down to business.

The captain cleared his throat a little before responding. “This is d’Artagnan, a recruit here. He came into my office a little while ago and then collapsed. He’s burning with the fever, his feet, I think.”

The doctor ran his hands around d’Artagnan’s face and neck and then gently lifted his eyelids to examine the pupils beneath. “Yes quite a fever. Untreated for a couple of days I’d say. Let’s look at his feet.”

After the quickest of looks, the doctor retrieved a round glass from his bag and used it to peer more closely at the soles of his patient’s feet. He sighed. “That’s your problem. Glass. There’s small pieces lodged deep in some of these cuts on both feet and from the looks of it, he’s removed several more pieces himself. The ones left are tiny but more than big enough to cause this infection.”

He stood then and took in d’Artagnan’s general condition. “I must say Treville, I never thought I’d see one of your men in this state. He’s seriously malnourished and I’d say exhausted. Since when does the King’s own guard treat its recruits in such a way?”

The Captain was stung to the core by the doctor’s words. He ran his hand through his short hair helplessly. “I had no idea. I mean, I saw he’d lost weight but not how bad it had got. He hid it so well. I think he’s been determined not to show weakness but still, we should have noticed.”

“Hmmm, young men can be like that.”

“Will he recover?”

“I won’t know until I get every splinter of glass out of his feet. Normally I’d say a fever like this shouldn’t be too much of an issue but his overall condition isn’t going to help. I don’t know what reserves of strength he has to fight the infection.” Seeing the worry clear on the Captain’s face the doctor patted his arm and said: “Come, let’s not worry yet. Young men can be stupid but they can also be stubborn. Let’s hope this one is both.”

It took almost two hours for the doctor to tweeze out every piece of glass and then clean and wrap d’Artagnan’s feet. The young man was mostly unconscious, something his Captain was grateful for as the doctor dug his knife deeply into the soft flesh of his heel, chasing one razor-sharp splinter. He came to just once, mumbling an incoherent string of words that might have included ‘horse’, ‘Gascony’ and bafflingly…’turnips’.

Finally the doctor stretched his aching back and stood straight. “That’s all we can do for now. I think he will wake soon. When he does, get him to drink infusions of these leaves with plenty of water. Try to keep him cool. If his fever breaks, encourage him to eat, little and often to begin with. Make sure he rests and stays off those feet.

“By all means, send for me again if he worsens but I will warn you – if he does, I doubt there will be anything I can do for him. His fate is with God now.” With that, the doctor left.

 

*****************************

 

For the next few hours, Treville stared at the paperwork piled high on his desk, his thoughts constantly flitting to the young man who dozed restlessly just through the door.  He was just rising to check on him again when feet pounded along the balcony followed by his door flying open. There stood a panting Guy Lahogue closely followed by a wide-eyed youth. Both were flustered and breathless.

“Captain,” Lahogue blurted out. “There’s been in incident you need to know about. Marcus, the baker’s boy” and with that he gestured to the young man hovering behind him, “saw it happen, while I myself saw the criminal run from the scene.”

Treville nodded to him to continue. “Go on then.”

Lahogue grabbed the baker’s boy by the shoulder and thrust him forward. Treville had an image of a terrified hare just before a hunter pulled the trigger. “Go on, tell him exactly what you saw. Just like you told me,” he urged.

Marcus swallowed and began his story. “Well sir, I was lightin’ a candle in the Church of St-Gervais when I ‘eard a noise over at the altar. I thought it must  a’been Father Maurice but that din’t seem right cos I’d seen him goin’ out as I’d gone in.”

Lahogue shoved him gently again and hissed “get on with it!” into his ear.

“Well, there was this man an’ ‘e were emptin’ the coin plate into a sack he ‘ad. Then he grabbed one of the candlesticks and put that in there too!

“I shouted ‘Oi’ at ‘im, an when ‘e saw me, ‘e came at me with the other candlestick. ‘E swung it at me, tried to take me ‘ead off, ‘e did!”

“I would say he failed,” Treville commented dryly, still not at all sure why this matter had been brought to him.

Sensing the Captain’s impatience, the young man pressed on. “Well, ‘e din’t ‘ang around to see if ‘e did or if ‘e din’t! ‘E dropped ‘is sack an’ ran, fast as I’d ever seen anybody run, right outa the church and inter the street.”

Lahogue, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, jumped in. “That’s when I saw him, Captain. I was passing on my way back and I saw him burst through the doors of the church and run like the devil down the street. Then Marcus ran out after him shouting ‘stop thief’.  I was shocked but I made chase but he turned and pulled his pistol on me. Threatened to shoot me right there if I didn’t stand down. I had to stop and then he was gone.”

“And…” Treville prompted, still not sure where this was going.

Lahogue pumped up his chest and stood almost to attention. “It was d’Artagnan, Captain! d’Artagnan was the thief!”

“d’Artagnan?” Treville’s voice was disbelieving.

“Yes, d’Artagnan. I think he’s deserted the regiment. His horse has gone. I’d wager he intends to flee Paris and needed some coin to get away.”

The Captain slowly stood, leaning forward with both hands on his desk, eyes narrowing as he peered at the two men before him. “d’Artagnan?” he asked again. “Are you absolutely sure Guy? No mistake possible?”

“No Captain, I saw him as clearly as I can see you now. He threatened to shoot me – he knew me. It was definitely him.”

“And you?” Treville turned to the baker’s boy. “Did you recognise this thief?”

“Yes sir. I knew it were d’Artagnan, the young ‘un who goes around with Monsieur Porthos and ‘is friends. ‘E used t’ buy a pastry at the bakery, most mornins.” Marcus looked to Lahogue for reassurance and then added: “Definitely ‘im, it were.”

Treville continue to study the pair. “Now I’m going to ask you both a very important question and I need you to think very carefully before you answer. How long ago did this incident take place? I need you both to be sure?”

“Not half an hour ago Sir,” Lahogue answered immediately, the man by his side nodding furiously. “I saw d’Artagnan at the stables much earlier this morning. He took his horse out but refused to tell me where he was going. This might not even be the first theft he’s carried out today!

“Captain, we need to ride out straight away. I bet we’ll catch up with him on the road south. I’m sure he’ll deny it but that’s because he’s a liar as well as a thief.”

Treville fixed him with a dagger-like stare. “Thank you recruit but I give the orders around here.”

“Of course Sir.” Lahogue looked uncertain for the first time since he’d burst in. “You see,” Treville continued, sinking back down into his chair, “the problem I have is how d’Artagnan could have possib-”

The rest of his sentence was drowned entirely by the door of his office once more bursting open, this time to let in Athos, Aramis and Porthos, looking in turn furious, shocked and distraught.

“Captain, it isn’t true, he didn’t do it!” Athos yelled, all composure gone from a man whose self-control was legendary.

“Heavens Above!” Treville rolled his eyes at the three-man force of nature now pressing up to his desk. Lahogue took an involuntary step backwards while Marcus slithered behind the blond recruit, eyes suddenly darting around for an escape route.

Then all hell let loose. Athos was yelling d’Artagnan’s innocence at Treville, Porthos was screaming at Lahogue and threating to run him through, Aramis was shouting for Porthos to calm down, Treville was ordering Marcus to stay exactly where he was while Marcus mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “he made me do it.” It was total chaos.

The noise was enough to wake the dead, and through the door to the Captain’s private quarters, d’Artagnan stirred on the bed. He wasn’t sure where he was or what he was hearing but he picked up the angry tones and his own name several times over. His fever demanded to know what was being said. With a great deal of effort he levered himself upright and then unsteadily to his feet, wincing as the thickly padded bandages made contact with the floor.

He staggered the few steps to the door, falling heavily against the wooden frame. He prised open the door just an inch and gasped at what was going on.

At that very moment, desperate to regain control in his own office Treville hammered his fist on his desk and bellowed in a voice loud enough to be heard at the Louvre. “THAT. IS. ENOUGH!

“Athos, Porthos – STAND DOWN! Lahogue – SIT, our conversation is far from over. You, young man,” this directed to a now openly trembling Marcus, “stay exactly where you are.

“Now, before we were interrupted,” he glared at the Musketeers before him. His voice then took on a silky, dangerous tone which made Athos’ eyebrow shoot almost into his hairline.  “Lahogue and his friend here were just telling me they both _personally_ witnessed d’Artagnan – just half an hour ago - attempting to steal coin and silver from the Church of St-Gervais.”

Porthos growled. Athos levelled a calmer look at his Captain and uttered flatly: “No. I will not believe it.”  Aramis sounded more desperate: “Captain, you cannot think this to be true.”

“Hush,” Treville responded to all three, not taking his eyes of the recruit seated before him. “No, I don’t believe it. In fact, I know you are not telling me the truth.” Guy Lahogue swallowed but didn’t stop staring straight ahead as his Captain continued. “You see, I know you are not telling me the truth because it is impossible. The man you have accused of being a church robber has, for the last three hours, been desperately sick and unconscious in my own bed in these very quarters.”

As if on cue, the door at the back of the office was pushed forward and all heads turned. There d’Artagnan stood, leaning heavily against the frame and trembling like a new-born. He’d done his best to follow the conversation but all he’d been able to make out was that he was being accused of robbery. In his fevered mind, he couldn’t work out who was doing the accusing, only that his already shattered world was crashing even further around him.

It was Marcus who broke the shocked silence and caused the room once again to erupt. Backing away, he squeaked at Lahogue: “You said they’d never know,” and then to the others in the room “he made me say it, I swear I didn’t want to!”

Time seemed to stop as d’Artagnan saw everything happen at once. Aramis gave a small cry and rushed towards him. Marcus stumbled backwards as his escape was blocked by Porthos.  Lahogue leapt to his feet, pulling out his pistol and turning in one smooth motion. Seeing the danger at the same time, Athos sprung forward as d’Artagnan desperately willed his muscles to obey his need to throw himself at Lahogue.

As the pistol exploded, the noise and movement became too much for the Gascon and he felt his head spin and his knees buckle. He was unconscious before Aramis’ arms circled his chest.

 

****************************************

 

 

It was peaceful here. Although far from deserted there was an anonymity he’d missed. He breathed deeply and appreciated the sun dipping behind the buildings on the river’s west bank, painting the Paris skyline a fiery blend of red, pink and gold.

He’d found a rough seat on a pile of rubble littering the water’s edge and eased himself down.  Although he enjoyed the view, he was really here to think, away from the stifling four walls that had held him for more than two weeks and away from the constant presence of three hovering nursemaids, however well intentioned.

d’Artagnan sighed. Decisions needed to be made and he’d put them off for long enough.

This was the first time he’d been allowed out of the Garrison on his own since he’d collapsed so dramatically in his Captain’s office. His mind flittered back to that day, most of it unfocussed in his memory. One image stood clear from the haze – Guy Lahogue, pistol arm outstretched, finger on the trigger.

He’d learned that Athos’ desperate lunge had been enough to deflect the pistol upwards so the ball had buried itself in the wall just above the head of the simpering Marcus. Why Lahogue had chosen the baker’s boy as his target was not clear, perhaps he’d turned on his accomplice for losing his nerve so easily.

Athos had made quick work of disabling the would-be Musketeer. Yanking him out of the office, he’d had him and Marcus on their way to the Bastille where, as far as D’Artagnan knew, they still resided.

His fever had taken three days to calm after which he’d been forced to remain on bed rest until the doctor and Aramis decided the shredded soles of his feet were repaired enough to take his weight. Speaking of weight, he felt there’d hardly been a waking moment when someone hadn’t been shoving something towards his mouth – broths, hearty soups, red meat and strong wine.

Thankfully the constant fussing over his health had left precious little time to talk – something he’d wanted to avoid at all cost.  On the occasions when he’d heard one of his keepers clear their throat in a meaningful way he’d turned further onto his side and shut his eyes, signalling his desire to sleep more.

Even without the ‘big talk’, Athos, Aramis and Porthos had all made it clear they were shocked at his intention to return home and that they believed his place to be here, in Paris, with them. That was why he now felt the need to escape just for a few hours to wrestle his conscience without the awkward silences, knee patting and doe-eyed looks.

He may be well again – or at least well on the way to being so - but other than that, nothing had changed for d’Artagnan. He still had no commission from the King and still no income from Lupiac. And that meant no means of remaining in Paris.

Plus, although he would never admit it, the events of the weeks just gone had rattled his confidence badly. He’d been abandoned by the men he’d come to depend on in Paris and despite all he had tried to do he’d coped badly as a result. He could no longer see where he fit into the Musketeer regiment, or even whether he still wanted to.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and grimaced slightly. They’d not allowed him out completely alone then. A nervous shifting of weight. Ah, Athos. Yes, it figured they would send him.

Without waiting for permission the older Musketeer settled at his side. d’Artagnan reached into the rubble for a small pile of stones and idly started throwing them into the river.

As was his way Athos started without preamble. “I thought you might want to know I’ve just come from the Bastille. Both Guy and the baker’s boy have been put to the lash for lying. Marcus was not treated badly as the Justice believed he was coerced by Guy. Guy’s punishment was…harsher.”

d’Artagnan spoke for the first time. “But it could have been worse, couldn’t it? You petitioned for clemency.”

Athos nodded just once. “Does that make you angry with me?”

“No, why would it?” d’Artagnan was genuinely surprised by the question.

“I felt I owed it to his father. After his punishment was carried out Guy was taken by his older brother who has assured me the man’s future lies far from Paris, the New World perhaps.

“Before his lashing Guy confessed to me his crimes against you – sabotaging your pistol and - ” Athos visibly winced “the glass in your boots. Accusing you of theft was his last desperate throw of the dice to discredit you totally. d’Artagnan, I am so very, very sorry for the trouble he caused you. I brought him into your life and his envy almost ruined you. I simply didn’t see it.” Athos looked up, his eyes searching the young man at his side.

d’Artagnan paused his stone throwing but still refused to look up from the river. “Actually, it is I who need to apologise to you. When I figured out the pistol had been tampered with, I believed – that is, I thought, well-“

“You thought I’d done it?”

“Only for a few minutes!” d’Artagnan finally raised his head, shame clearly painted on his face. “I couldn’t see how anyone else could have, you see. But then I gave it proper thought and I hated myself for thinking it. So I’m sorry, too.” His voice tailed off.

“Think no more on it. I probably would have suspected me too.” The slight amusement in Athos’ voice was not lost on d’Artagnan who shrugged his shoulders but seemed to relax slightly.

After a few moments of silence Athos spoke again. “What we cannot understand, Porthos, Aramis and I, is why you refused to tell us about your lost income. Why did you exhaust and starve yourself trying to survive rather than ask for our help?”

d’Artagnan shifted his weight on his rock. He’d known this question would come and in truth, hadn’t been looking forward to answering it. “I thought it only temporary, I kept expecting money to come and until it did I thought I could manage. Once Guy arrived, I thought…I considered myself no longer your burden-”

“d’Artagnan stop. Surely you know we would never consider you a burden? You are our friend, our colleague and our brother. Family can never be a burden.”

The younger man sighed again. “I know, I really do. It’s just, Captain Treville told me that you’d been paying some of my costs while I’d been an apprentice. I was ashamed I hadn’t even known. Then you switched your patronage to Guy and I felt I needed to prove I could make it on my own – be my own man. Things were going OK until my income failed to arrive. By then we were hardly talking and my pride would not allow me to approach you for charity.”

Athos reached out his hand and then let it fall. “Again, the fault is mine and you have my apology.”

“Don’t. You were only doing what you thought was right. What you thought your father would have wanted. It’s all about turnips...”

“What?” Athos looked mystified when the Gascon didn’t explain further.

“Nothing. Just something MY father used to say. It’s been on my mind a lot of late.”

Silence sat between them until, once more, Athos was the one to break it. “By the way, your horse is back where she belongs in the Garrison stables.”

That got the other’s attention, his head shooting up. “What? How-?”

“I tracked down the trader you sold her to. Luckily he hadn’t sold her on. Remembered you as the deathly pale young man hardly able to put one foot in front of the other. Apparently you threatened to slice off his manhood with your dagger if he didn’t take care of her.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” he lifted one corner of his mouth in amusement. “Anyway, I secured her back and now she is yours again.”

“Athos, I cannot afford-”

“Cannot afford her, yes I know. Nevertheless, she is yours.” He continued after a brief pause. “Let me do this one thing please, it is the very least I can do.” D’Artagnan huffed. He took a deep breath.

“I am going to tell Treville tonight that I intend to return to Gascony as soon as I am able. I have to find out what is going on down there. The farm and the people who work the land are my responsibility. I can no longer chase a dream in Paris while who knows what they are suffering.”

Athos stilled. He’d been dreading this decision. “Then let us come with you. The three of us have leave saved. We will accompany you and take on whatever we find together.”

“No, Athos. You have my thanks but no. This is for me to attend to.”  His voice carried a life-time of regret.

Athos knew what his young friend wasn’t saying. “You don’t intend to come back.” It was a statement infused with sadness.

“In honesty I cannot answer that.  All I ever dreamed of was being a Musketeer but now, after - after everything, perhaps the life of a Gascon farmer doesn’t seem so bad. Turnips again.”

“Please don’t leave,” Athos whispered. “You would be missed, very badly. Treville is sure your commission is just around the next corner and until then we will find a way.”

“Athos-”

“At least don’t decide right now. Take one more night to sleep on it. Come to the Garrison at first light and inform Treville then. I will be waiting for you.”  With that and a pat to d’Artagnan’s knee, Athos stood and ambled back towards his rooms. d’Artagnan continued to look, unseeing, at the river.

 

****************************************

 

 

True to his word, d’Artagnan slept on his decision that night. Although _slept_ was hardly an accurate description of how he spent his night. Most of the time he just stared at the blank wall at the foot of his bed, Athos’ words doing battle in his head with the decisions he’d already made.

It was before dawn when he finally gave up on sleep and rose making his way to the Garrison as Paris started to wake around him.

The farm boy had always been an early riser and during his time with the Musketeers he’d enjoyed many early mornings watching the city shake off the night and come alive. He was going to miss this.

His talk with Athos the day before had made him feel better – less alone, but at his core he knew it had changed nothing. Lupiac was still calling him and he knew he could never settle until he saw for himself what had happened to his farm. After that? Did he still have the drive to return to Paris and resume his fight to become a Musketeer? It might just be the lingering exhaustion talking, but he was not sure he did.

He would tell Treville he was intending to set out for Gascony this very morning. He was feeling well enough for the journey and really he was just prolonging the inevitable goodbyes. Better for everyone if he was just on his way.

As he paused at the Garrison gates, he allowed a rush of memories from the last months to wash over him. From the moment he’d stormed in looking for Athos’ blood, being adopted by the Inseparables, teasing Aramis about his love-life, the excitement of missions and the tedium of guard duty, stealing food from Porthos’ plate, feeling part of _something that mattered_. They were good memories and d’Artagnan knew he would treasure them always.

It was still too early to see the captain and except for the overnight patrols he’d expected to find himself alone in the courtyard.  A movement caught his eye and he smiled to see Porthos slumped at their familiar seat, Aramis perched on the bench at his shoulder carving an apple with his knife.  He allowed himself to stare for a moment, wanting to fix the image in his mind for all time until Porthos turned his head and, seeing him, raised a lazy arm to beckon him over.

“Mornin’ lad,” he greeted with one of his trademark grins. “Thought you’d still be in your bed at this hour.”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“I came to see the Captain. Anyway, I could say the same about you. It’s a bit early isn’t it?”

Aramis shrugged. “It’s a bit late really, since we haven’t been to bed yet.”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“So you’ve come to tell Treville your decision?” the weapons master didn’t look up from his task. “I doubt he’ll rise for a while yet.”

d’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably. He’d promised himself he could do this calmly and without breaking down but it was going to be much, much harder than he’d imagined.  He spoke softly. “Yes…and to say goodbye. I said I’d talk to him last night but then I promised Athos I’d spend one more night thinking…where is Athos? He said- ”

_Tap, tap, tap._

He glanced around the courtyard. “-he’d meet me here.”

“Oh he’s here alright.” Porthos grinned again. “He’s taken up a new hobby.”

Aramis chipped in: “That’s why we’re sitting here. Just in case he needs any help...” He nodded confidently, as if his words should be explanation enough for the mystified young Gascon.

_Tap, tap, tap. “Damn, ouch, damn!”_

“…or any patching up.”

Porthos looked up at his fellow Musketeer. “I don’t think he’s any good at it. Yeah he’s good with his hands when he’s got a sword in ‘em, but this? Nah, I can’t see it.”

Aramis nodded sagely. “I think you might be right my friend. Athos has many talents but I’m not sure he has the patience to master this one.”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“’He’s been at it for hours. We did tell ‘im. He can’t say we didn’t tell ‘im.”

“That’s very true. We certainly did tell him.”

“But we know what he’s like. Once he gets an idea in ‘is head, he’s not going to listen. Bit like this young ‘un here.”

A bewildered d’Artagnan looked between the pair, unable to make head nor tail of their strange conversation.

_Tap, tap, “damn and blast!” tap._

The noises and muffled curses were definitely coming from the area below the Captain’s office.

“Go on then,” Porthos looked meaningfully at d’Artagnan and nodded his head towards the sounds, “You’d better go and see ’im.”

After staring at the pair for a second longer, d’Artagnan found himself turning and with leaden feet heading towards his best friend and mentor.

What he saw astonished him more than anything in his young life.

Athos was standing by the wall in the light of a smoking torch in his shirt sleeves, a small metal tool in each hand. But what really made d’Artagnan gulp was the blood that was covering every one of the Musketeer’s fingers and dripping in little rivulets down his wrists and forearms.  d’Artagnan could see now what Athos had spent the night doing and the result almost took his breath away.

The recruits’ contest roll of honour had been _defiled_.  Deep marks had been gouged into the wood across a horizontal line until every trace of Guy Lahogue’s name had been obliterated. Underneath, a new line had been carved. It was messy, the letters unskilled, uneven and mostly of different sizes but it was a beautiful sight:

_1630 – Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony._

d’Artagnan raised his eyes to meet those of his friend. He whispered: “Athos, I-”

“Don’t say anything. It is only part of an injustice that needed correcting. Whatever happens from today, every man who enters this regiment should recognise your name as one of our greatest recruits. You earned that at the very least.”

“Your hands-”

Athos looked down as if seeing the damage for the first time. “It is of no matter. The other two were correct it seems – I am indeed no loss to the fine art of wood carving.”

He took a breath and ploughed on, aware this would be his last chance. “d’Artagnan, I came to you yesterday to apologise again and to try to convince you to stay with us. As usual my words were not adequate and I failed. I have no shame in trying one final time.

“You are an extraordinary young man and your presence in my life has changed me, much for the better. But you are a _young_ man with your whole life before you – a fact I forgot a few weeks ago when I wrongly believed we were better off apart. You can return to Gascony and be a farmer but I believe you have the time in front of you to complete what you have started here and go on to be a fine, _great_ , Musketeer. Please, do not deny yourself this chance because I was too stupid to see what was before me.”

“Aye lad, us too.” In his stupor, d’Artagnan hadn’t realised Porthos and Aramis had come up behind him until he felt the big man’s hand settle on the back of his neck.

Aramis added softly: “Please d’Artagnan. Give us another chance. Let us go with you to Gascony – we would love to see the country that bred the best of us – and when we’ve helped you sort things out, return with us to our brotherhood.”

It was a test of head over heart again and D’Artagnan knew in that second that his heart – as ever – had won out. He looked around at the three of them and wondered how he’d even considered going back to a life without them in it. He smiled a little hesitantly. “You’ll love it…the fields are the greenest-”

He got no further as he was engulfed in a four-way embrace that left his description of Gascony’s fields unnecessary. He’d said enough.

They stood together for a while longer until a door opening above them signalled the Captain emerging from his quarters. With one last look at his brothers, d’Artagnan straightened his doublet and walked up the stairs, ready to give Treville his decision.

 


End file.
